


Falling

by CountessMillarca



Category: InuYasha - A Feudal Fairy Tale
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Complete, Corporate Espionage, Dark, Multi, Obsession, Psychological Torture, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-27
Updated: 2014-07-27
Packaged: 2018-02-10 15:25:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 21
Words: 22,796
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2030214
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CountessMillarca/pseuds/CountessMillarca
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Somewhere drifting above and beyond.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Aching Everywhere

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I do not own InuYasha. All rights belong to Takahashi, Rumiko-sensei.

He is the voice behind that dream, drifting above and beyond, flowing and swelling, his name stitched on the walls of her throat. Always. Tonight. She twists and bends and shivers, fingers buried in that cleft between her thighs, the place that throbs and seethes for him, for the heat of his skin. Wild, untamed motions, she fools herself, imagines things that can never be – wet, and wetter, she comes close, tight muscles and restriction around her fingers. Screaming and thrashing and aching, she falls apart, unsatisfied. It is never enough, can never be the same. He is not there. Her fingers are not his. Everything is solely hers – the perspiration, the moans, the slickness and spasms inside. He is miles and miles away – from her touch, the strokes of her flesh, the grip of her body.

She cannot tell when it begins, when it will end – she can only _feel_. Perhaps it is the first time she lays eyes on him, perhaps the second, or even the last. It makes no difference. He will always be as he is. He can never change.

He is as cold as he is hot – death melted into gold, the quiet side of animal instincts, the nadir and zenith of heat. There is no middle, no halves, no limits with him. It’s all or nothing – but it doesn’t matter, nothing matters. _She_ burns, she wants, she needs –    

_Take me…please._

Her body speaks for her, through the blue of her eyes, eclipsed, merged with her pupils. Cimmerian. Lust-fire.

His eyes slash though her, see the naked urge staring at him, a mosaic of desperation and lust and obsession – and answer for him. One word, full of poison, slathered on her lips, slow-spread toxicity…not meant to kill but sear, wound, and scar the fleshly parts of her soul.

 _Pathetic_.


	2. Le Roi Soleil

The sky is not yet touched by night, by finespun seduction, mauves and indigos and garnets, when Kagome enters the high class lounge she is employed in the centre of Ginza – but it is when her shift begins. _Le Roi Soleil_ is the epitome of luxury with its avant-garde décor and upper class clientele. Arched ceilings and twisting staircases and extravagance, lacquered with crimson-black, streaked with golden stardust. The lavish establishment is the place where the rich and richer favor for their entertainment, for absinthal drinks and lush bass notes. Kagome serves on the second floor where mostly businessmen cater to those clients of great profit for their firms, the quieter floor, the less brushed by danger.

" _Pretty little things like you would make better tips on the rooftop where sons of prominent families spend their parents' money so frivolously."_

Miroku is right, her manager is always right, but Kagome prefers her honest earnings to the alternative – unlike many of her fellow co-workers. She can neither judge nor blame them for their choice, though. What happens in the private booths of the VIP rooms remains there, never uttered beyond their sinuous entrances, slathered on cushions and velvets. Such liaisons are subtler in this second level, more delicately handled, like business transactions, smooth and under the table.

Kagome has never indulged in this decadence, has never provoked such offers, not that many customers prefer her either way. Perhaps it is the curve of her lips, slanted apathy, perhaps the blue of her eyes, hyaline, unlicked by lust, or her professionalism, a quality these men can relate with. She is polite but not coquettish, smiles but never smirks, serves their orders without dalliances – and they seem to approve of that. In fact, most of the regulars request she serve when they entertain foreign clients. _Yamato Nadeshiko,_ they call her, delicacy and intoxication, which pleases and entices all non-natives, gives them a taste of the perfect Japanese woman – and tonight is such a night. Miroku has appointed her to serve the table reserved by the Taishō Conglomerate, leading enterprise in electronics and communications.

"It is of the utmost importance that they leave here satisfied. Even that reclusive CEO of theirs is attending…which means their client must be highly influential or significant. Be on your best behavior, Kagome."

Kagome needn't be told twice. She is well aware of who exactly their customers are, remembers applying to one of their subsidiaries right after her graduation, receiving that polite letter of rejection, and shredding the pristine white paper to pieces – one of _many_ to follow. Her tuition loans cannot wait for a letter of acceptance, though. A sigh tangles in her tongue at both reminiscence and imminence of her situation. Yes, she has debts to pay, but this is neither the time nor the place for what ifs and acridness – only smiles, mellow tongue, and poise.

With languorous motions and steps, she walks towards her designated table, smears the scent of dianthus in her passing, makes her presence known before she even reaches her destination. A graceful bent of her spine, she bows, greets them.

"Welcome to _Le Roi Soleil_. I am called Kagome and I will be your hostess for the evening."

Soft, full of woman and lure, her voice seizes their attention, halts their conversations for the barest moment. Five men, clean shaven, hair slicked back, black suits, and the air of status quo, the fragrance of old money. Two of them offer her smirks, confident but young, much too young for their word to carry weight _. Minor executives, sent for negotiations regarding this deal before the main players arrive,_ she guesses. Still, her lips curl, half-courtesy, half-compulsion, but she does not speak more, awaits the response of the man situated at the head of the table, that reclusive CEO as Miroku claims. A mere tilt of his chin is all he gives, tacit command for her to continue.

Kagome inclines her neck, proceeds to place the menus before each one with practiced ease and dexterity – but for the first time she makes a mistake. Kagome's grip slackens, the first menu – _his_ – slipping past her fingers, as she stares into the man's eyes. Perhaps it is the soft glow of the lighting in the dark, or perhaps hallucinations spawned from the viscera of lust, Kagome doesn't know what it is, but his eyes flash with an unnatural hue – like honey, gold and raw and slightly bitter. Respiration fails her, sensations awaken, flow into her veins, hot, sultry blood – and, for the first time, she understands the reason for these private booths, wishes to take _this_ man there herself.


	3. Means to an End

Kagome caters to her clients, satiates their every request, whether voiced or not. Taking turns, she sits beside each one, learns their names, their preferences in alcohol and conversation, smiles and plays the role of the perfect hostess – but all that ends when she must sit beside _that_ man. He offers neither name nor words, only silence, tensile, charged with things she has never felt before for a man. He makes allowances for observation on her part but nothing besides that – except _want_ , thick and sultry and demanding.

He is like the cigar he smokes – wood flavors and spices, less sweet, creamier, filling her lungs with every breath she takes, seeping inside to coil in a zesty mass low in her abdomen. Firewater sidling on her tongue, sip by sip, she swallows, imbibes the taste of male and unbridled need – until that creamy scent coalesces with her own, dripping, coating the seam of her thighs. Inhalation. Exhalation. Kagome attempts to tame the desire cresting within her, to tether the intrinsic urges spiraling into her blood vessels – but it is futile, irreversible. Once unleashed, that river courses and ripples, devastates all in its path, licks of lava burning her from the inside out. She is left with no choice but to resort to physical distance, to remove herself from the origins of those sensations, from this man – but then _he moves_.

It is imperceptible, an arc of his neck, lips gliding over the curve of her ear, hot skin, breath even hotter. Insidious, calculative motions, as if he knows where she is most sensitive, where to press to feed this insanity that possesses her with each word he speaks – and perhaps he does.

"Do you take private orders?"

Shivers lather on her skin, tingles slither down her spine. His voice spills in her ear, an amalgam of smoke and huskiness, heavy, narcotic. Kagome knows what he is asking, what he wants – the same thing she does. A licking of lips, the answer pours out of her mouth, unbidden, before ethics can restrain her tongue.

"For you…yes."

It is a low whisper, thick in insinuations, brimming with words unspoken – _only for you_. She cannot tell if he hears it or not, but she doesn't care. So long as his breath slides against the slope of her neck, sinking into layers of skin, fueling that cluster of cravings in her core.

"Make the arrangements."

Nothing more, nothing less. He draws back then, allows her to escape the snare of his voice, of his proximity, and Kagome tilts her head in a slight nod, excuses herself to do as he bids.

When she returns, he has finished his cigar, but the smell still lingers, clings to him. His eyes gleam over the rim of his glass, the same color as the whiskey dwelling within it. It evokes a feeling of vertigo in her, lightheadedness. A nimbus of haziness morphs her eyes into grey coals, dark blues, simmering with things to come. Kagome averts her gaze, unable to hold his stare for long, bows at the waist and speaks through red lips.

"If you would please follow me, Taishō-sama."

Then the rustling of fabric, the chuckling of his company, male voices, comments with equal doses of slyness and casualness – but not _his_ voice. Kagome does not hear his voice until she leads him into the private booth reserved for their use, into the lair of clandestine desires and anonymity.

"Take off your clothes."

Less huskiness, more command, it's sharp, too sudden – too much like him. She raises her gaze to his level, teeth sinking into her lip, reddening the soft flesh. Of all the lavish furniture in the room, of all the comforts made for pleasure and rasp-ridden moans, he chooses the armchair. Long legs crossed, arms resting on black velvet, the white of his dress shirt stretches over lean muscles and thews. A rise and fall of his Adam's apple, exposed collarbones, accentuated lines, he stares at her and waits.

A viscous substance cloys her throat, anticipation and something else, closer to wariness. There are no murmurs of lust hidden in his low tones, no shadows of yearning laced in the gilded luster of his irises – only detachment, hints of curiosity, as if this is a tedious affair, a matter of necessity. It gives her pause, prescience slinking into her mind, cusp-like, foreboding. If he doesn't wish for pleasures of the flesh then what does he want? Kagome feels it will be fruitless to ask, a mere waste of speech. His posture reveals as such, tells of questions unanswered, of a man who is used to doing things in his own time, who satisfies the demands of no one but himself – and she loves that, more than she should, insalubrious addiction.

Slim, deft fingers uncoil the ties of her obi, part the silks of her kimono. It glissades on the swells of her body, breasts and hips, falls to her feet in a pool of ink and peonies, leaving behind only her nagajuban, almost gossamer, the last barrier. She wears no undergarments, no hesitation – there is no need for either behind these doors. Her gaze seeks his once more as her fingers lower to the flimsy ties, searches for even a scintilla of primal stirrings, of venery awakened, but finds none – merely a twist of lips, downcast, as if he has seen enough, has sated his cryptic purposes.

"That is enough."

Cool, full of finality, his voice inundates the space between them, washes over her. It halts her movements, makes her regard him with apprehension. _What do you truly want?_ Sewn on her vocal cords, she never vociferates the question that drills into her mind, but he answers regardless – this time.

"Do you know of the Flint Industries?"

Kagome decides to indulge him in order to learn more, to unveil the enigma of this man and his thoughts. She contemplates the name he gives then nods positively.

"The international firm said to be unsurpassed in mobile software."

He doesn't appear surprised by her knowledge of business matters.

"My company is on the verge of landing a major contract with them. Their CEO is expected to arrive in a month to finalize the details of the deal. He is quite fond of Japanese culture and wishes to have the experience of the one revered as the Yamato Nadeshiko of Ginza. I approached your manager but he claimed you do not offer such services."

It all makes sense now. This is a business transaction for him, an inspection of sorts, verification of possibility – that she is for sale. Her mouth curls in a smile, but it isn't really a smile. Harsh-edged, unforgiving, wryness molded into an expression – and _still_ she wants him.

"That is true. I have never offered them in the past."

The _only for you_ in her words remains unuttered but not unheard. His neck tilts, more habit than consent, as if he doesn't care at all for her offer, _still_ on the table. He stands then, takes up pen and paper from the stand beside the armchair, and writes down something. With slow, measured steps, he crosses the room, slips the paper in her cleavage, the pads of his fingers sliding over her clavicle, igniting the fires of lust that sizzle beneath. Kagome wonders how he can turn such an intimate touch into something so impersonal on his side – but then he leans into her, his lips mere inches from her own, his scent thickly potent at such close distance, and she loses her grasp on reality.

"Should you be interested in catering to our client, give me a call. This is my private number. Do not use it for any other reason."

His words anchor her, weigh on her shoulders, and she regains her equilibrium, sees his actions for what they are – a means to an end, tactics to sweeten his offer, to soften her compliance. Smooth elocution, manipulation. This man always gets what he wants by whatever means necessary, even if he has to become personally involved in his Machiavellian plots.

"I thank you for the offer, but I will have to respectfully decline."

Kagome stares into his eyes, unblinking, steel-armored, but nothing prepares her for what he says next, for that cruel slant of his lips.

"You would have let me take you in any way I wanted ten minutes ago."

His truth remains with her long after he leaves. It stings and burns, splits her skin into thin strips, lacerations and smelted blood. Kagome fathoms what he means to tell her – products aren't allowed the choice between buyers, professionals cannot differentiate between customers. In his eyes, she is nothing but an object, can be seen as nothing else – not person, not woman, _nothing_.


	4. Personal Advice

A week passes. Ceaseless days and sleepless nights. Kagome stares at the note he has given her, the sole thing _his_ in her possession. It is smooth and unwrinkled, almost harmless, but the name written there, the man it belongs to, is far from that. Again, and again, she utters his name, tastes the perfection in it – raw vocalization, like the man himself. The sound glides on her palate, stretches and coils and twines, thrust so deep inside her, into the pith of her cells, that it becomes inseparable. The mere utterance evokes spasms, intrinsic, involuntary. A hitch of breath, ripples of heat, surging under tight skin, from her lips down to her nipples, low – and lower still. She moans, gasps, screams his name – in the dead of night, in the midst of slick sheets and release. It is not enough, _never enough_. Madness saturates her thighs, her fingers, spills in dips and crevices, suffuses all that she is, all that she wants to become – _his_ , only his.

Kagome knows she will see him again in three weeks when he will reserve a table to entertain that client of his, and no sooner than that, but she is wrong. When he comes into her dressing room, an hour before her shift begins, as she is readying herself, shock prevents her from showing incriminating expressions. She neither welcomes nor turns him away, but he doesn't wait to be invited either way. The door closes behind him, soundless under the drumming of her heart inside her ribcage. He stares at her, a glow of pyrite, illusions of gold – eyes cognizant of things he should have never been, of secrets she has given away too easily.

"Did you consider my proposal?"

Her fingers sprain, gripping the lapels of her robe, knuckles white, whiter than even the fabric itself. Thin-lipped, polished, her smile never reaches her eyes.

"My reply remains the same, Taishō-sama. I have never offered such services in the past – and I have no intention of doing so in the future. You _were_ an exception."

Perhaps it is the truth in her words, conviction enameled on red lips, perhaps the lie, that allusive intonation – because he still _is_ an exception, if only he asks – she cannot tell what provokes this reaction, but his eyes glare like metal, gold-edged. There is no other warning, only the cold of the wall against her cheek, the heat of his body on the contours of her back, pressure and tightness. A sound escapes her throat, half-moan, half-hiss, but she doesn't struggle. Her arms are pulled and bound above her shoulders, wrists overlaying one another, trapped in his grip, coils of steel stretched under skin. His voice flows over the slope of her neck, permeates sensitized flesh and nerves, when he speaks.

"This is _not_ an exception."

Such an unfairly desirous voice it is, sentient. It fructifies submission, a sound meant to hypnotize, stimulate the senses. Kagome parts her lips to speak, though she has no voice of her own, but she is never given the chance either way. Fingertips snake beneath the silk of her robe, nails graze along the inside of her thigh, rake the smooth flesh, high – and higher. She shivers, cold becomes hot, the pads of his fingers glide over that ball of soft tissue, circling and rubbing and scraping. Soft folds, soaking, drenching both of them as he teases her in all the right ways – but what he does is _not_ right, it is too decadent to be called merely that.

"Men come here for their lusts –" Slow intrusion, delving deep, a stroke of heat, slick as the flesh that pulses around it, and his voice lowers, near drowned under her gasp. "– for _this_."

Kagome arches, bends and strains against him, against the tether of his hold. Fire, his voice, languid motions – they curl and twist, surge and withdraw, in a maddening tempo that has her aching.

"Whether you give it or not makes no difference – so long as the promise remains in the air."

A skein of words knots under her tongue, pools into her mouth, but she can't untangle it – not a single word. His rhythm is so languorous, methodical, that the pleasure becomes pain, throbs with precipitance.

"Do you understand what I'm saying?"

His grip tightens, nails sinking into thin skin, and his pace regresses to even slower strokes. She hearkens to his demand then, regains her voice, murmurs and desperation.

"Yes…but I –"

The moment those words break their chains, emerge from her throat, he deprives her of speech once more, as if he merely wishes to ascertain her clarity, nothing more.

"Did you know that I'm also a shareholder of Moritaka Financial Group? Obtaining information on their clients is quite easy for me. Student loans, for example."

Despite need swelling in her veins, and through the haze, realization embeds its talons into her desire. Again, she shivers, hot becomes cold, but the torment of his touch never stops – willing enslavement. He gives as much pleasure as he does pain.

"Settling them is _even easier_."

There is such baneful delectation subtly woven in his offer that she forgets to breathe – but it is not really an offer, she can tell. Struggling with respiration, teeth bite the insides of her cheeks, copper floods her mouth. She swallows the torture alongside the ecstasy, forces her lips to move.

"I can…pay my own debts."

Something changes then, static electricity, vibrations against her spine, as if he is chuckling, but he is not fully capable of it, she suspects.

"In time, yes. With your current earnings though, it will take some time – two years, to be exact. That is… _if_ you continue to work here with the same benefits, the same clientele."

That _if_ falls heavy on her skin, sears the nape of her neck, palpitates inside her with each thrust and brush of his fingers – but that pressure builds and tightens and seethes. She says nothing, only chases after that high, allows his voice to guide her there.

"One of the most basic rules in marketing is that you can _never_ afford to lose a customer. If word spreads that you decided to bestow certain privileges upon a customer, offer services you never granted before, then expectations will arise. What do you think will happen when you will not meet those expectations?"

Kagome is cogent of the threat in his words, invidious insinuation – but she is close, _so_ close, that she cares nothing for it. No – that is a lie. She cares for the way he vociferates it, lust composed into a sound, as if the thought of it arouses him.

"I don't want…anyone el-"

A hiss, muscles gripping, on the verge of spilling over the edge, on the precipice of apotheosis. Her words die in her throat, never reaching completion – neither does she. He doesn't grant her release, doesn't give what she needs – merely the taste of it, of her insanity, slathered on his fingers as he withdraws them from the clasp of her body. Too slow, agonizing.

"Finish that sentence and you are done in this profession. Take _this_ –" Wetness, denied pleasure, those same fingers dragging over the curve of her lips. "– as valuable advice."

She hates him then, as much as she hates herself, her susceptibility, smeared on his digits, on the angles of her jaw, as he tilts her neck back. A fingertip, rough and slick, his sole allowance, slipping past the seam of her mouth, sliding across her tongue. Her gaze locks on his features, on the liquor of his irises, on the kink of his lips, sees wisps of fire, curled satisfaction – yet it is another kind, not born of desire but sovereign. The flat of his tongue spreads that satisfaction over the arc of her cheekbone, sultry acid melting her skin.

"For free."


	5. Too Late

"You wish to absolve your contract? That is…most problematic – for _you_. Kagome…you can't afford the fine with your current financial situation. Didn't you read the contract before signing it?"

As always, Miroku is right. Kagome smiles, cynicism on the whiteness of her teeth, on their brilliant sheen – ivory vexation between parted lips. His lips, too, quirk into a wry smile – because he knows her answer before she vocalizes it.

"I did – but I had no choice in the matter at the time. Isn't there anything to be done about the fine? Installments perhaps?"

His smile lessens, straight lines tangent to a curve and somber words.

"I wish I could help you out, but I'm afraid I can't."

Then he asks the questions she is expecting, a frown above black brows.

"Why would you wish to quit? You have made a name for yourself, you make good money…soon you'll be able to pay off your student loan. What happened to make you change your mind?"

Kagome fluctuates between truth and lie, contemplates omission and silence, but she is too weary, has been worn too thin to choose pretense and prevarication.

"Taishō…Sesshōmaru."

Shame slides across her tongue as that name spills forth, made huskier with remnants of slickness. Miroku siphons the accent of her voice, imbibes the sensuality of it. His eyes flash with recognition – and he knows more than she reveals, hears her screaming that name, feels the perspiration, the contraction of muscles, the scent of arousal meshed into the sound.

"What does _he_ want from you?"

Low, with traces of curiosity, and something else, darker, primal knowledge, his voice suggests more than his words. Kagome laughs then, an insipid sonance, devoid of feminine lures. For the first time, Miroku is _wrong_ , so terribly wrong.

"He wants me to sleep with one of his potential clients to sweeten the deal, to gain him a profitable contract."

Bitterness saturates the fleshly parts of her mouth, merges with hot saliva, and she near suffocates at the prospect, but Miroku doesn't share in her laughter.

"I'd have told you to stay away from that man if I knew beforehand, but it's too late now."

_Too late indeed…_ It hangs between them, the perfect guillotine, made of electrum and deliberate moves.

"Kagome…give him what he wants – for _your_ sake."

She raises her eyes to his level, full of numbness and shock and _whys_ – but then she sees it, that umbra in his eyes, that tightness on his lips.

"You know something."

It is more statement, less question, emblazoned on the blue of her eyes, athirst for answers she will surely loathe. Miroku's hesitance, the way his gaze narrows, how the muscles of his jaw tauten, reveals as much. A sigh, half-disdain, half-resignation, deafening in its exhalation, and he is speaking, despite the aversion she sees reflected in the lines of his face.

"There was a girl working here a few years ago. She actually resembled you closely in appearance now that I think of it. Her name was Kikyō and she served in the upper floor."

Kagome doesn't miss the implications in his chosen tense, yet it is too early to come to conclusions, to suspect things that are simply too horrid to be spoken aloud. Miroku falls silent though, perhaps lost in the labyrinth of reminiscence, and she is forced to vociferate an iota of her suspicion, to make it real, palpable in the thickness of the air between them.

"You speak in past tense."

He sighs that sigh once more, yet it is heavier, recalcitrant to its nature, as if it is not supposed to be a sigh but something else entirely. Kagome knows Miroku well enough to unravel the connotations spun in the sound – pity, disrelish, and the slightest touch of reprehension.

"I'm not aware of the specifics since I wasn't her manager, but I do know this. She was involved with a Taishō, I believe his younger half-brother, quite seriously by the look of things at the time. She talked to her manager of breaking her contract and marrying him, saying he would pay the fine, but then –"

Pause, consuming, horripilation crawling across her skin, electrons gorging on her brain.

"She committed suicide."

Silver daubs the black of Miroku's pupils upon utterance, forewarns of overlying events. Kagome is cognizant of what he does not say, half-lidded warning – of iterant past, of things that will occur once more if she insists on this madness. Her throat feels unbearably dry, parched for truth, terrified of it, yet she _needs_ to know. Like a moth to a flame, she is drawn to the dark and its mysteries, sable fire licking at her, melting skin and bone until there is nothing left to burn.

"Are you implying _he_ was the cause of it?"

It is no more than a murmur, breathless, but she does not speak _his_ name again – she _cannot_. Kagome is cogent of how it rolls off her tongue, low, lust-ridden, a sound too callous for this moment, in this context.

"I can't tell for sure, but I'm certain he wasn't pleased with her potential addition to his family registry. A low class hostess gaining the Taishō name would have made for a pretty big scandal… But a dead hostess? No one would care…no one did – not even that brother."

There is such disgust in that last sentence, spat in the alleged man's phantom face. Miroku shakes his head, lights a cigarillo; the scent of wood, of vanilla and sweetened chemicals, inundates the atmosphere, filters through the air she breathes. Shivers slither down the slope of her spine, memory roused, desire rekindled. She traces the ringlets of smoke to their source, her eyes stroke the contours of Miroku's lips, longing, yearning for them – even if it is nothing but a poor substitute, a chimera of things she can never have. If Miroku notices, he doesn't show it – but she knows he _does_. Brows knitted, she asks what he omits, perhaps more for her sake than for his, if only to extinguish that urge, the insanity roiling inside her veins.

"How could that be? Didn't he wish to marry her – or was it all wistful thinking on her part?"

Miroku stares at her, long and hard, as if measuring how much to reveal, how much she can withstand. A strange gleam dwells in his eyes, but Kagome cannot distinguish whether it's pity or recrimination or a mixture of both, only that he knows, that he sees too much. He takes another drag of his cigarillo, slow, titillating, an old-time tease, then he speaks.

"If I had to take a guess of what happened, I'd say he seduced her away from his brother then discarded her as if she was nothing. No Taishō has stepped foot in _Le Roi Soleil_ since then…not until _now_."

Realization weaves its tendrils around her mind, circulates in her bloodstream, chills as much as it scalds – but Miroku is far from done. Lips thinned, his stare pierces through layers of self-denial, takes her captive in amethyst plaited bonds. _You will listen – and you will listen well,_ is what he says, and she does listen, but merely that, they are both aware.

"That man, Taishō Sesshōmaru, is _dangerous_. I've heard things, but nothing concrete, merely rumors. I know about Kikyō because I worked here at the time, yet I can only speculate. Do you understand what this means?"

Kagome swallows thickly, her throat hollows, filled with air she can neither absorb nor release. Miroku is a clever man, has worked in this profession for over a decade. If even he can _only_ make assumptions at the course of events then –

"His methods are…subtle but effective – and _final_. He doesn't get his hands dirty because he doesn't have to resort to such. That man can ruin people to the point where they wish for death."

His voice is soft but harsh, the softest and harshest tones she has ever heard from Miroku. That last word – _death_ – grazes against the base of her neck, a sharp-bladed eidolon, the presage of end. Kagome cannot tell when he moves but he is _close_ , much closer than a few minutes ago. Fingers smooth over her cheekbone, across her jawline, languid caresses. That decadent aroma slathers on her skin, drags over the curve of her mouth with each word he speaks.

"Give him what he asks. Once you satisfy his demands, he'll sever all relations. I doubt he will bother you again afterwards. He's the type of person who has no need for things that aren't of use to him."

Lips and teeth and the barest lick of tongue – he kisses her.


	6. Under the Sun

Day after day, night after night, Miroku's words swirl in her mind. Sometimes slow, sometimes quick, caged in a vortex of repetition, of lust-ruined echoes, with nowhere to go, neither up nor down, inside or out. Kagome hunts for the littlest of information regarding that woman – _Kikyō_ – yet all she unearths is uncanny resemblance – a susurrus of snares and death-wishes. Taishō Inuyasha has never made a public appearance for years either, more of a recluse than even his eldest brother, quite a contrast, flashy in another meaning. The media has grown wild over time, speculations aplenty, almost devastated by the loss of their _golden prince_ – more like golden egg. Kagome devours whatever morsels she drags onto her plate, attempts to piece the macabre puzzle, to liberate herself from curiosity and obsession, to no avail.

Hours turn into days, days turn into weeks, but the _heat_ turns into nothing – it simply _lives_. A viperous serpent that slithers and curls around her body, writhes and constricts, till its scales lose their rough edge, smooth flesh gliding over flayed skin, fangs gleaming with a sordid sheen. She feels nothing but that heat after the first strike, the pulse of her blood, as it clots with poison and corruption, flows from the wounds to form another skin, thin membrane over reason – whatever little of it remains. She falls and aches and waits for the trigger of this paroxysm, for _him_ to come and tear through the membrane, engrave himself so deep inside her that she will have no need for reason. Even as she prepares herself in her dressing room, adorns silks and scents of cerise, even then, she waits for him, till the last coil of her obi, till the last brush of her rouge – but he _never_ comes. Kagome does not see him again until the end of the deadline when his client arrives.

Steps light yet leaden with impulses suppressed, she walks to his table, gives the customary bow. Her voice is mellifluous, notes of woman and desire, when she speaks, her smile a loose tilt of carmine.

"Welcome to _Le Roi Soleil._ I am called Kagome and I will be your hostess for the evening."

Her gaze overpasses all patrons but one, the man seated at the head of the table. He has not changed but neither has she, everything is as they should be – cold so low that it ripens into hot. It slips into her mouth, slides down her throat, melts into magma searing flesh and organs, dripping and seething into the apex of her thighs.

"Taishō-sama."

A dip of his chin, nonvocal acknowledgment. Teeth latch onto the inside of her lower lip, near rapture the wet flesh, nails sink into the soft parts of her palms, but she doesn't draw blood, has no blood rushing in those places, only lower.

"So this is the one called the _Yamato Nadeshiko_ of Ginza? The rumors cannot compare to reality."

It is truly a labor to take her eyes away from him, to hearken to another man's voice – but she does. _Handsome_ , she thinks, almost mechanically, but it makes no difference. His hair is too dark, easy waves, careless, his eyes slightly lighter, earth alloyed with henna, and his voice –

"It's a pleasure, _Kagome_."

Sleek, forked-tongued seduction. Kagome has been acquainted with his type more times than she can count in this profession – her male counterpart. Men such as he are the reason women end up as hostesses more often than not. Still, she inclines her neck, her lashes flutter once, and she sits beside him.

"Thank you for your patronage, Flint-sama."

Cool lips brush by her ear. He inhales her scent, the savor of wild cherries, then the hiss of a breath, satiation in his chuckle.

"Please, call me Naraku."

"As you wish, Naraku-sama."

Kagome accedes to his request then pours him a drink. Through the glassy surface of the bottle, filled with gold, expensive liquor, she sees _his_ distorted visage – fire spilling into the glass, swelling in the juncture of her hips and thighs. Her eyes slant towards his client – hers as well – delusions of undivided attention under curved lashes.

"You speak the language fluently."

Laughter touches the rim of his glass, pleasant but too smooth, as if cultivated to perfection.

"For a foreigner? Well, yes, I am of Japanese descent on my mother's side. That is one of the reasons I chose to do business with the Taishō. Sesshōmaru is well aware of this fact."

That name on his lips, the intimacy of the sound, wrings a curl of envy within her. It twists and warps and tangles into a spider's web with her captive in its centre.

"Do you visit often then?"

Polite, saccharine, she performs her work – and she does it well. Kagome has no other choice but to lie in this web, limbs bound by strings of silk and fire.

"Not as often as I would like. My free time is limited, I'm afraid. Even this is more of a business trip than anything really."

Time languishes, glissades with leisure motions, painstakingly slow. Kagome listens and smiles, nods and laughs, but it is nothing more than a façade. It doesn't matter. Naraku seems to be wearing a likewise façade as far as she can tell. It is well past midnight when he checks on his wristwatch and a wholly different expression slathers on his features. His eyes are both light and dark, fulvous chestnut, shadow of fresh blood – but he is _not_ staring at her.

"Isn't it time, Sesshōmaru? I do have an early flight, after all."

"Indeed."

It is the first time _he_ speaks this night. His voice seeps through silk and skin, strokes that liquid heat surging inside, sizzling quietly, till it festers and grows into an inferno of need. Kagome can barely make sense of the implications in their exchange but, when she does, ice inundates her veins, freezes the merest lick of heat. Envy births itself anew in her body, flows outwards, suspended in the space between them by invisible threads. Her tongue drags over her lips, moistens the dry flesh, and she asks what she suspects.

"You have finalized the contract?"

Naraku is the one who answers, as always, but that façade has melted away completely. There is only lust – in his eyes, voice, _everything_.

"Oh yes, we took care of business already. This is strictly _pleasure_."

His gaze lingers on the line of her collarbone, as if he finds its delicate curves more erotic than the swells of her breasts beneath, as if he can feel their texture, the taste of her skin under his tongue with a mere glance.

"Do make the arrangements for a private room, love."

She stiffens, an open reaction this time, too quick to conceal it under feminine prevarication and practiced tongue. It doesn't go unnoticed, as she fears.

"Is there a problem?"

Kagome licks her lips once more, unsure of what will come out of her mouth if she parts it, but she is not given the chance to reply.

"She mistakes your intentions, Naraku. I did tell you _not_ to play with words."

Heavy, donned in smoke and apathy, his voice fills that empty space in the hollow of her throat – but she cares nothing for those things. Kagome only cares that he speaks again, has ears only for that veneer of vicious pleasure in his tones. Naraku raises his gaze to her eyes then, leans into her, _close_ , much too close, and she _sees_ , she _knows_ – _nothing_ has gone unnoticed.

"I was under the impression she would join us, Sesshōmaru. From the way she has been staring at you all night, I'd not be surprised if –"

What he whispers is reserved for that private room, for the wetness that deluges her thighs, too sinful to be spoken aloud. She shivers, feels his tongue touching that place, laving the slick heat, all the things he says made tangible – but it is not _he_ whom she imagines. Naraku doesn't give names either, only sensations.

"No."

That one word filters through her haze, slashes through need and _please_ , sharp in vocalization, shaper in cognizance. A sound pours out of her mouth, almost a whimper, drowned under Naraku's chuckle.

"You are cruel – but that is what I like in you."

Kagome despises _him_ then, more than herself, that envy takes another shape, becomes something she has no name for, all-consuming and violent. He speaks again, for the third and final time.

"Make the arrangements. Your services are no longer needed."


	7. Fallen Gods

Kagome chooses the same room as last time, the inception of _her_ lust, unsated, sewn on every surface and object in this room. Perhaps for sentimentality's sake, perhaps for the scent saturating everything inside – _hers_. She has lost count of how many hours she has spent in this room after the end of her shift each night, haunted by what ifs and fantasies – but he will never know that. It is both a curse and a blessing. Her steps are quiet, too quiet, as she walks before them, until she comes to a stop before _that_ room. Lowered lids, heavy limbs, she stands still, refuses to open the door, enmeshed in that insidious web, skin peeling, assimilating into the silk threads. She cannot tell how long she stays like this until sensations nullify the envenomed bonds, thread by thread – warmth on the curve of her back, a cuff of muscle around her waist, hot lips on the nape of her neck.

"Let her stay."

Shivers rush along the tapered bones of her spine, weakness suffuses joints and ligaments, and she leans back into the man, allows him to speak for her desires. _Naraku_ – she knows he doesn't seek to slake her cravings but his, yet she can't find it in herself to care at this moment. Respiration struggles in her lungs, she waits and waits and –

"Do as you please."

Breath gushes out of her lungs, almost strident, ringing in her ears, and she feels those lips moving over the juts of her vertebrae.

"Your choice, love."

She has no choice – the grin on those lips, skin-felt delectation, confirms that he is well aware. Gently, carefully, he guides her inside, sweltering weight at her back, never relinquishing his hold on her. She sees nothing, rendered blind. Touch gorges on all other senses, becomes a monster hungering for the merest nibble of attention. Only when _he_ walks before her, overwhelms her vision with his presence, does sight return. Poised over the minibar, he pours himself a drink, takes his leisure in his sips.

"Tell me –" Temptation in dulcet tones, svelte fingers, ties uncoiling, cool air and nude skin. "– what is it that draws you to him?"

Inhalation, spine bent, undulations of hips and swells. Layers of satin slink lower, down her shoulders, baring strips of skin, nipples, distended and hard, tufts of ebon below her navel.

"The same thing that draws you."

It is a strangled sound, a hiss and a moan, tamed under his touch. Fingers snake down her body, glide over her hipbones, over that bundle of nerves and sensitive tissue. Round and round, he circles that spot, until she melts into a mass of spasms and sweat.

"No, love. You and I are very different. This is nothing but a passing fancy for me – but not for you…"

Kagome hearkens to the sound of his voice, to the rasp of satisfaction in it, but merely that. Spreading her thighs apart, teasing and rubbing slick skin, parting soft folds, he exposes her to Sesshōmaru's gaze – so wet for him, always wet. She makes no move to hide, allows his eyes to feast on the taste of lust and cruelty – his favorite flavor. Naraku can have her if she can have _this_ , willing, ripe for the taking, no deceit, no coercion. Kagome no longer cares for such petty, insignificant things. Not now, not when she has _him_ where she wants him. It makes no difference to Kagome, any manner she can have him, nothing else matters.

"She's dripping wet just by staring at you."

Low, slathered with sin, Naraku's voice ignites the underlying want, forces her to acknowledge the lure of the man. He grinds against her buttocks, once, twice – heat seeps through thin fabric, takes the shape of hard flesh, the promise of fulfillment. Nails rake and scrape across his forearms, shallow welts. She guides one hand higher, makes him graze the expanse of her stomach, the lines of her ribcage, envelop a heavy breast. It swells and spills into his grip, aching for more. A chuckle, husky with arousal, wetness smeared on the arc of her neck – he flicks a turgid nipple, his fingers slip into hot, tight flesh, slow penetration, in and out.

Slim fingers, dexterous, Naraku knows how to touch her, where to knead, when to press. Her hips twist, swallow each thrust and stroke, relish the strain, the stretch inside, intrinsic gyrations, wanting. It feels so good, to have a man do this for her, not herself, but _not enough_ ; Naraku cannot give what she truly needs, despite the lavishness of his motions, rough skin, rough tongue, plunging and licking. Blood melts in her veins, she writhes and arches against his torso, yet she keeps her stare transfixed ahead, on their audience, invitation, pleas wrapped in azurites, pupils dilated.

 _Please_ …please –

Kagome watches as he puts down his drink, neck slanted, as if intrigued by this display, though she cannot tell what rouses his interest – but then he begins to undress and she consigns thought to oblivion. The jacket falls first, a heap of black fabric on the floor. Her eyes trace the motions of his fingers as he unfastens his dress shirt – hard muscle, contoured beneath taut skin, clenching and unclenching. She moans, teeth bleed her lower lip, Naraku's fingers never cease their languorous rhythm. Fire spreads faster than a forest ablaze, emulations of muscles inside, tense contractions – and _he_ is moving, coming closer, unhurried steps, anticipation in hitched breath. She stares up at him, eyes gone dark with lust, nerves ravished raw, and when he leans forward, she feels all that hard muscle, coolness merging with the fever that racks her body. It grows and mounts and thrives, slickens her flesh to the point where she is nothing but liquid want – but she is _not_ the one he sees.

Trapped between the seam of lean thews and perspiration, insanity seeps into her pores, her breath fans across the hollow of his neck, and she watches helplessly as his lips, those perfect lips slide against Naraku's. A flash of teeth, sinking into warm flesh, sinuous tongue laving the teeth marks, the heat of reaction lancing through her. Fingers grasp her jaw, angle it high, bruising in their demand, cords toiling in her throat. A gasp, suffocation, the pad of a finger rubbing that spot on her lip, blood welling, zesty and viscous.

"Are you enjoying yourself?"

Drunk on his voice, she comes undone, rides Naraku's fingers to the last stroke, to the last pulse, drenching her thighs, dripping down to her knees – but he doesn't grant her the revelry of release. Too soon, much too soon, he speaks again, through that high, loosens the grip of muscles within, tightens the clutch on her jaw.

"If I want to touch you, I will – but you do _not_ have that right. Do you understand?"

She can't help but nod, silent pact, bitter to sample, unpalatable – but it is not enough for him. His eyes glare with a toxic glint, pry her lips open, press her to admit things she detests.

"Yes."

Shadow of a smirk, tongue dragging, lapping at sultry blood, reddened lips, he rewards her – or so she likes to believe. His hand trails across her side, claps her hip, one brutal squeeze, fire in the flesh, then he is moving away.

"Good. Carry on."


	8. Low in Poison

She is left shaking with remnants of half-release, not quite how it _should_ feel. Half the pleasure, half the satiety, but it is better than nothing – that beast prowling inside her body tells her so, purrs with halved satisfaction.

"It hurts, doesn't it?"

That rasp in Naraku's voice has adopted other qualities – darker than fresh blood, rich with the scent of tobacco, thick with the taste of whiskey. It saturates her tongue, the curves of her breasts, glides down her throat to scorch the viscera of her belly.

"Why do you care?"

He chuckles, lazy strokes of his vocal cords, of his fingers.

"Call it a mere whim. I'm curious, you see."

His words give her the slightest of pause, but not his fingers – those never cease their languid exploration, mapping out every dip and crevice of her body, from the inside out.

"About…what?"

It is not Naraku's decadent motions that make her breath catch in her throat, but what lies before her eyes. _He_ is as naked as she is, holding the chains of lust and lunacy, ties that cannot be severed – and he is coming to bind her beyond hope for escape. Kagome can't be sure if Naraku's next words are real or a figment of her imagination, but perhaps it is fortuitous not to possess that knowledge.

"How low you're willing to fall."

All sensations seep away, flow outwards – a slow haemorrhage. _He_ cauterizes her senses, rips them from her nerves, gorges on them. One by one, they die – sight first, then touch, sound, taste, scent – only to be birthed anew, sharper than ever before. When they return, she feels _too much_. Hands grasping her thighs, lifting her up to twist and bend around him, skin against skin, that toxic light in his eyes.

"Look at me."

Languish, nefarious, his voice laves her hunger, waxes her lust. She stares into his eyes, sips the venom disguised as light, so bright it evanesces all shadow and spite. Obsession matured, fermented over the time she has spent wanting him, reaching its apogee to spill even beyond. No limits, no restraint, nothing but the flex of muscles as he pulls her against him, the line of his erection as he slides between skin and oversensitive nerves. Breasts flattened against his collarbones, nipples, swollen and grazing, up and down, and a moan, low, incited by the promise of stricture, of palpitation – soon to be filled, to be raptured inside. What a foolish woman she is, to surrender without care, to spin her own web, forget even her own name in this moment – a mayfly's dream. Shame, such shame, to break so easily, so soon – but she knows of no other way, no other man.

Teeth clamp on the edge of her lip, blunt but sharp, puncturing skin, tongue licking, drinking her in – a little fetish, a little torture. It gives her the excuse to succumb to baser instincts, to take what she craves, what she desperately seeks, to move and writhe against him without breaking his rules. A gleam of that poison, a twist of hips, he sinks into her, _one_ slow thrust. Every inch takes him deeper, every spasm clutches him tighter, until he can be taken no deeper, be clutched no tighter. Muscles gripping, strained, wild, never to last, over too soon, heat deliquesced into slithery flesh, sweltering around his erection as he withdraws, slips out of her completely.

"She is all yours. Do with her what you will."

_One_ slow thrust – all that he gives. She can feel the weight of his cock, slick and heavy against her stomach, the force of his hands on her thighs as he lowers her to the floor. Still, she never stops staring at him, neck craned back, aching from the new angles, but she can longer see that brightness – there is only poison now. Her knees are weak, too weak to support her, trembling with _please_ and _more_ , then she falls – into naked sinew, litheness stretched under skin, another body, another erection, gliding between the seam of her buttocks.

"Very low indeed –" A chuckle, teeth nibbling on the lobe of her ear, she takes the fall. The floor is cold but not cold enough and inside she is burning, coils of lust and wetness around another flesh. "– but so tight and wet."

_He_ is there, he is always there, away from her reach, above and beyond, inside someone else, a body that is not hers. She arches off the floor, a peal of sounds spills past her lips, high with hard thrusts, low with slow twists, but she never takes her eyes off of _him_. Hot tongue wrapped around a hot nipple, smearing torridity with each lick and sweep, dragging up her neck, she lets go, gives in to convulsions, thrums of sensations. Pleasure ripples and swells, soaks through tissue, tight constriction. She feels the shudders, the groans, ravishment and male, embedded too deep, shock after shock – until it turns into something else, near painful, too sore to take in more so soon. It doesn't matter that she is spent, that the man inside her is spent. She licks her lips, pants without breath, bearing the brunt, that rawness spreading within, abrading her flesh to the point of abuse – until _he_ is done.

She lies there until the last tremor dies in his body, imbibes the reverberations, the correlation spiraling through layers of skin between them. Her eyes lick the perspiration off his muscles, her ears devour the huskiness of his climax. Then he is standing, tall and naked, slick, gleaming heat. She barely feels Naraku drawing back, relinquishing the clasp of her body, her vision lustered with gold and white. _Nothing_ , she sees, hears, smells nothing – not the donning of fabric, not the laughter, not the satisfaction deluging the air.

"You were a pleasure, love."

Her hand is being raised, delicately held, lips sliding over her wrist, kissing the pulse racing under thin skin. Brittle, made breakable, her voice finds its way out of her throat at the sound of footsteps, of the door opening.

"Why…why are you doing this?"

She doesn't know if he will even answer such a question – but _he does_.

"You should have taken the offer."

There is such naturalness, such frost in his voice that it numbs the neurons in her brain – but she understands. This is a man who does _not_ like to be defied, this whole affair is nothing but a matter of principle for him. It is too casual, so insipid, that it does not even leave the aftertaste of revenge – merely heat coated with a thin layer of ice. The void he has created inside of her grows, whelms with echoes of his name, licked by the burn of his skin, a hollow place for anguish and need. She screams his name after him. _Once_.


	9. Falling and Rising

She cannot tell how long she lies strewn on the floor, broken body, broken mind – a broken doll. Perhaps minutes, hours, even days, perhaps only seconds. That void, that terrible emptiness, burns hotter than midsummer's sun, compresses and expands to the drum of her shame, to the sibilance of her breaths, until she becomes nothing but an outer shell of herself, stretched to encompass the myriad, split fragments, skin welted, bound by lace-like ribbons – so pretty, so ugly.

_I need to move…dress – I need to... I need to go home._ Slowly, carefully, she turns to her side, winces as the first twinge of pain assaults her, spills from that cleft in her thighs, flows inwards, into the cavity of awareness. She swallows the wetness, the shame, the cold, the sequela of her wretched lust, until she is no more woman, no more flesh and blood – only Void. There is no entrance, no exit, merely disintegration, grains of gold fusing with the ashes of what she used to be before _him_.

She should weep, she should mourn herself, slay the phantasm of what can never be – and _rise_. The tears never come, as if she has no right to shed them, to lament her fall, and perhaps she doesn't. What kind of woman would do this _willingly_ , would plunge into the abyss with no regrets? _No regrets_. Tears will never come for such a woman. An attrition of teeth, more wetness, more shame, more cold – and she _rises_.

Time surges onward, days come and go, insidious circles on the clock, full of pseudo-smiles and airy words. _Le Roi Soleil_ caters to its patrons as it always does, Kagome the vessel of its allure, the manifestation of its dark and red but not its gold, never that color again. Miroku is right, more right than he has ever been. _He_ never passes through its threshold, never designates her as his hostess, never uses _that_ private room. The vestige of obsession resides in that room, imbued in its white floor, coagulated with the sapidity of _falling_. She never takes step in there either, she does not have to – a part of her will always live in that room, ripped and discarded, _unwillingly_. It is the only way for her to _rise_ , to gather the fractured pieces and bury the gold-tinct ashes.

Reality is a cruel realm to dwell but hope is even crueler – and so she crushes all hope within her stride. Every night she walks into _Le Roi Soleil_ , bows and smiles and serves. Every night she walks home with a little less of that void churning her insides. Every night – except _tonight_. The strike is unexpected, physical pain on the back of her neck, unwelcome. It hurts for the merest moment – then nothingness engulfs her, crawls into every bend and niche of consciousness, gorging on her nervous system.

_No…don't…I need to stay awak-_

A scintilla of gold, diluted with the dark of madness, impelling her deeper into oblivion – until nothing survives.


	10. Dreams End

The sound of footsteps pierces through the blackness – clattering pace. Her head throbs but not as much as the base of her neck. Cognition is a sharp lance, cutting deep, laved in flames. It burns and stings, hellfire spreading through the haze, igniting wakefulness in its passing. Her lashes flutter once, slow ascent, artificial light, glaring volts of radiance. She blinks the drowsiness away, smothers the ache under apprehension, observes what lies around her. Space, boxes, pallet racks, forklifts, things that attest to a warehouse – and those loud footsteps.

The man is tall, far taller than a human should be, but then she realizes he is not. It merely seems that way from her position. Back resting against one of those boxes, legs sprawled, bent in painful angles, she stares up at him, despite the strain on her injured neck. The first thing she notices is that mockery of gold in his eyes, the hue of sanity rarefied. She recognizes the man pacing before her, back and forth, like a caged animal, but what she knows of him is not what she sees. There is no cockiness in the line of his mouth, no mischief in the glow of his skin, only mutters of words and sweat. He is not the same person she recalls from records of old interviews, merely the darker side of light. Even ghosts have names though, and she remembers his, cannot help but whisper it in the madness of impulse.

"Taishō…Inuyasha."

The sound of footsteps halts for the barest of moments then comes closer. He kneels to her level, rough hands on her shoulders, shaking her lightly. The grin that stretches across his face mirrors the glint in his eyes. A succession of teeth, white with the luster of psychosis and hope, he speaks to her – but he does not see _her_.

"You…you know my name, you remember me! Then you _must_ be Kikyō – I was right! He lied to me…You're alive…he –"

He stops to swallow, nearly choking on his own saliva, nervous tick on his jaw and the delirium of joy. That sooty gold in his gaze turns dimmer, sullied with nightmares cogent to no one but him. Apprehension morphs into fear, chills her blood and her breath, but she can't tell of what she is more afraid – the man or the ghost, the living or the dead.

"He told me you were dead, that I – that I killed you…but it can't be! Look at you, my beautiful Kikyō, so beautiful…"

The backs of his knuckles caress the hollow of her cheek, made hollower with the hiss of intake, absorption of truth. She remains stunned under his touch, staring into that murky gold, sinking deep, and deeper. It glistens with guilt absolved, twin pools of mud and tears.

"I could never kill you! I love you so much! You believe me, right? You _must_!"

More spittle than words, hotness fanning on her face, he makes a strangled sound in his throat, moves even closer. It gives her the incentive she needs to break free of those liquid bonds, drag herself out of the quicksand.

"Taishō-sama…" Lips arid, motions of bloodless flesh. "I'm not…Kikyō-san." Eyes frozen – lids, lashes, irises, pupils. "I'm sorry – but you are terribly mistaken."

Confusion lights his gaze, sparks of the mind beneath the thick crust of self-conviction. He studies her features – the curve of her lips, the lineation of her nose, the slant of her eyes. His brows crease, whether in contemplation or denial, she is not sure, but he leans back, severs all physical contact, and for that, she is grateful.

"You…are not Kikyō?" He pauses, chin trembling, then falling open into bellows. "But…you _are_! Why are you lying to me again, Kikyō?"

Emotions avalanche across his face, too quick in their descent. Gaze wide, voice almost hushed, he approaches her once more, crawling on hands and knees.

"Is he…is he the reason? You don't have to fear him. I'll protect you this time, I swear."

There is nowhere to escape, no place to hide, not that it matters. Fear induces paralysis at the most inopportune of times. The fact that she retains the faculty of speech is a miracle in and of itself, her sole reliance in this matrix of despair.

"Please…Taishō-sama." She pleads because she cannot do otherwise – but it is a tearless plea. Tears scorn her when she most needs them. "Look closely – I'm not Kikyō-san. My name is Higurashi Kagome. I may look like Kikyō-san but _I am not she_. Please…believe me."

Awareness flashes in his gaze, but she dares not hope just yet. How his brows crease, not quite a frown, more disdain than confusion, forewarns nothing good.

"Higurashi Kagome?" He spats the name, as if the mere utterance offends him. "That was…that was the name on those files, those pictures I saw on his laptop, but I thought he changed your name to hide you from me. Isn't that right, Kikyō? He wants to keep us apart to save face, but I don't care about that. I wanted to marry you then – I _still_ do. I… _I love you_."

Her brain refuses to process the madness he spews at her, registers nothing but what she _wants_ to hear – that _he_ has shown a speck of interest in her. Even though she has been cognizant of who _he_ is for quite some time, it never sinks in as it does now. A licking of lips, blood circulates, reddens the pale flesh.

" _His_ files?"

Memory rides her breath as it leaves her lungs, full of implications, incriminating in its vocalization. His body stills, tension seeps into his stance – and he _knows_. She can see it in that ruddy gold, both light and dark, promise of spilt blood.

"Kikyō…you – that expression…"

Tentatively, almost tenderly, he reaches for her, fingers stroking her cheekbone, tangling into the mess of her hair. When he pulls her to him, yanks her neck with a force she does not expect him to possess, she finds the strength to struggle, despite the futility of it. That fear spikes, creeps along her skin, beats to the wild tempo of her pulse as his fingers snake around her neck.

"You…fucked him again, didn't you? _Why_? Why did you betray me with that cold bastard again?"

His forehead is slick with perspiration as it slides against hers, skin hot, growing hotter. She fights harder when those fingers tighten and constrict, nails raking his shoulders, down his arms, but his grip never loosens. Blood wells under her fingernails, flayed skin and tissue.

"He doesn't love you! He can't love anyone! Why can't you see that? _Why_ –"

His words mute into white noise, gurgling sounds, or maybe those belong to her, she can no longer distinguish. She is falling on the edge of that dream, that foolish dream she knows can never come true.

"Inuyasha." Perhaps _his_ voice belongs in that dream as well – a death reaper's gift for a pitiful woman. "Let her go." If she could laugh, she would, but as it is, she can only _let go_.


	11. Nothing for Granted

The first time she regains consciousness there is a blur of movement, many hands on her body, cold plastic and lightheadedness. It lasts no more than a cycle of respiration, a flash of white light. Her lungs are swelling and burning, her eyes can perceive nothing but amorphous shapes. She welcomes the pain, the needles puncturing her flesh, the tube being forced down her throat – proof of life, an anomaly of survival. The second time there is less pain, more quiet, cotton soft against her skin, light suspension, almost a stasis. Her lids are heavy, her blood drugged, but she is _alive_. The scent of antiseptic is distinct, the sound of medical equipment a strange lull. _Safe_ , she feels safe – and so she sinks deeper into that stasis, submerges herself in healing. The last time _he_ is there.

The room is pristine, mellow shades of crème, contoured around equal measures of efficiency and comfort. His presence is a glaring contrast to everything in this room, as if he can swallow the space by merely being there – a black hole of flesh and blood. She breathes slowly, relishes the air, even if it is not sweet, even if each breath is a little strain. Silence reigns, seemingly endless, a kingdom of wariness and questions. She knows that he will not speak before she does – but she is not certain if she has voice to give. Her lips stretch when she parts them, too sapped from inaction, her voice carries the roughness of what has been inflicted on her under its sibilant notes.

"Where am I?"

What an insipid thing to ask, unnecessarily necessary. Only the fear of tearing her throat asunder restraints the chuckle buzzing in her chest. His answer, too, is the same, if not more so than hers.

"Private clinic."

She does not need to inquire of his motives for choosing such an establishment. Her memory is fractured, small pieces floating around her mind, some real, some unreal – but pain does not lie. This room, her voice, his presence tell part of the story, become the adhesive for recollection.

"I heard your voice…but I thought I was hallucinating." She stares at him, gratitude twined with malaise, bites her lip when he remains silent. "That was your brother. He's not well, is he?"

It is redundant to wait for confirmation in any form. The answer is imbued in the skin of her neck, coils of bronzed crimson, too soon to darken into mauves or fade away. She touches the marks, careful strokes, not enough to relive the nightmare but close – too close.

"He said that – that he killed her…Kikyō-san."

Intensity hardens the gold in his eyes, not quite a glower, palliated with curiosity. She traces the arch of his lips as he speaks, siphons the sound of his voice. It is rough but unlike hers, masculine tones, natural.

"Did he?" She doesn't lower her gaze, doesn't want to miss the question that simmers beneath cold metal. _Did you believe him?_

Even though she takes the time to construct a reply suitable for questions spoken and unspoken, originality eludes her. She is not – nor will she ever be – proficient in such dealings when it comes to _him_.

"My memory is hazy…but I think so."

His reaction is imperceptible, facile but far from innocuous. That glow in his eyes sizzles, the arch of his lips bends, perhaps in mockery, perhaps in amusement. It is such a slight change that she cannot fully interpret it, but she does not have to. His words solve the enigma of his expression.

"You are not a good liar."

Both mockery and amusement then, more than that even. She understands his remark for what it is, sees all the facets in it – that she will receive neither answers nor information from him, that she should be content with the fortune of being alive, to seek nothing more than what is already given. The smile that curves her mouth is as wry as it is acknowledgement.

"No, I guess I'm not."

He gives the barest nod. That idiosyncratic mixture of expression is gone in the blink of an eye.

"Your debt has been settled and your contract has been dissolved. Your medical bills have also been taken care of."

Shock dissolves her smile into nothingness. She bores her gaze into his, but she cannot discern even a sliver of emotion in his mien this time.

"Why would you do that? I did not ask to –"

"Fill out that paperwork while you are here." She follows the tilt of his chin to the ochre file on her nightstand, recognizes the logo of his company on the cover. "Once you are discharged, I expect you in my office at seven a.m. sharp the next morning. Understood?"

Too numb for either agreement or rejection, despite this not being an offer but a command, she reaches for that file, skims through its contents. What she reads inside is too preposterous to be true, almost laughable – but she cannot fathom this particular joke.

"You are…hiring me?"

"Yes." One word, nothing more, as if this is final, not up for discussion – like all else between them.

"But…why would you go that far?" Even as she asks, she suspects, cannot help but vocalize it. "If you're worried that I might press charges then –"

It is not his words that seal her voice – those only come later – but that he moves towards her bed, languid, sure strides. With each step he takes, she reclines back a little more, until her back is pressed against the headboard, until he is looming over her. The walls of her throat inflate, seethe with each inhalation. She watches as his arms form a cage around her, as the black of his suit stretches under his muscles, but he needn't have resorted to physical intimidation. The gold of his irises is enough to shackle her, so bright, so toxic, the sharpest blade in his arsenal.

"There is nothing I will not do for the right incentive. Remember that."

She melts, realizes life is not a gift but an allowance, then she freezes, accepts that fortune is but a calculated action on his part – and _then_ she nods.


	12. Laws of Nature

Kagome gazes at the state of the art building that houses Taishō Inc., at her reflection on its glassy surfaces. She is miniscule in comparison, nothing but a distortion of black and woman and uncertainty. _I don't…belong here._ The urge to retrace her steps, her previous life, return to the dark and its illusory safety is overwhelming – but she can't do that. _He_ will not allow such cowardice. Her lips twitch slightly, laughter gurgles in her throat at the perfect irony. She is in this position because she _is_ a coward. Jaw hard-set, eyes staring straight ahead, she takes that first step, stabs indecision with the jagged shards of her pride, until both are shattered and bleeding into unsound laughter.

Breath in, breath out, step by step, she comes closer and closer, walks past the threshold of elitism and old-sought aspirations, towards the man who holds her leash – but she no longer burns. All that remains is coals of obsession, black masses nesting in her organs, cancerous cells in a state of remission. How long will it take to spread once more? _Not long – soon…if I'm not careful._ The rate of survival will be tantamount to nil if this occurs again, she is well aware, but means of prevention elude her. She has taken the fall but she has yet to fully rise. A lizard with a severed tail will writhe on the ground until it regenerates or gets eaten by a predator – and Taishō Sesshōmaru seems the type of carnivore who likes to toy with his prey before he devours it.

She gives her name, her information, states the reason for her presence more times than she can count on the way to his office. Security, at least, is not a laughing matter here. When she finally stands before the lacquered doors of his office on the highest floor, she takes pause, touches the marks on her neck, concealed under layers of foundation. The mirror lies, shows a mockery of tiger stripes, grotesque and vicious, now faded into strips of tanned skin, but they are _still_ there – they will _always_ be there. Her arm rises, her palm slides over polished wood, almost tentatively, but the rap of her knuckles is raucous with finality when she does knock. The light buzz startles her, smooth electrical sounds, and she turns toward the intercom. Teeth sink into her lower lip, nervous habit, as she realizes her blunder. _I should have pressed the button…not knock._ Security is, indeed, quite high-leveled.

The doors are parting then, drawing back and sliding open, inch by inch, and she finds herself standing before _him_. Light filters through the glass pane, washes over her, bright gold, and she feels as naked as _that_ time in _that_ room under his gaze. The office is stripped bare, merely the absolute necessities to be ergonomic, but _he_ fills the space beyond its capacity. He sits on black leather, quite natural in this environment, yet all she sees is an animal wearing the guise of a man. Does his blood run hot or cold, she wonders, though she never asks. Instead, she is walking inside, leg muscles burning and features strung tight, until she is close enough to mistake his pupils for slit-black.

"Ohayō gozaimasu, Taishō-sama."

Something flashes in his eyes, brighter than gold, gilded displeasure. Perhaps she should not have spoken first this time.

"You will refer to me as _Director_."

She bows in respect – and to hide the smile curving her lips, instinctive response, so foolish. Is she truly so pathetic to be happy by what his order insinuates? Yes, she understands well what he means to tell her – this is not Ginza, she is not called Yamato Nadeshiko, _he_ is not her customer. A fluid motion of her spine, she rises, strict-poised, thin-lipped.

"Yes, Director."

He leans forward, elbows resting on dark wood, neck slanted, and she fancies he is pleased in the way an owner is when his pet shows good behavior. Even that thought is not enough to lessen her delight – but then she notices other things, hazardous in cognizance. Like the fact that he wears neither jacket nor tie, that his sleeves are rolled up to his elbows, that his dress shirt is unfastened down to his sternum. Her eyes trace the hard lines, accented bones, muscle and cool skin – or maybe his skin is hot like hers. She watches the rise and fall of his Adam's apple, realizes he speaks, then raises her gaze to his lips but no higher than that. If she falls into the lust of that gold, into the snare of the hunt, she will surely die this time.

"The secretarial office is on the twentieth floor. They have been alerted to your addition in the company. I expect you back in one hour fully briefed. The office next to mine belongs to you. Use the private line for all communications between us and do not disturb me for inconsequential things."

"Understood, Director."

A tilt of her chin, another deep bow, she takes her leave, fathoms more than she likes – this is Taishō Inc., she is called Higurashi Kagome, _he_ is her boss.


	13. Dragons Don't Exist

The secretarial buchō is an austere woman, terse in language, sparing in gestures. A stretch of wizened skin and silvery chignon at the nape of her neck, Mura Kaede is the type of woman Kagome wishes to be when time has swept her youth away.

"Here is your company ID, cellphone, and tablet. I took the liberty of transferring all data you will require for the time being, such as profiles of the Board members, the Director's schedule, lists of our clients and suppliers, copies of contracts, and the like. The secretarial office divided all tasks pertaining to the Director amongst them up until now, but he requested you be given full responsibility of those tasks. Do not hesitate to ask for assistance from the senior secretaries should you find yourself in a bind. Acclimating will not be easy, I can assure you."

Kaede smiles at her, her smile untouched by age, and Kagome finds herself smiling back, but she can see the shadow of reluctance dimming the older woman's smile. As the head of her department, Kaede's experience is vast, etched on the lines that frame her eyes, and Kagome can infer what hides beneath those lines, within that smile. It is a slice of kindness, a treat of pity, because Kaede will never voice the susurrations that follow Kagome's steps from the moment she has set foot inside this building – not that she has to. It is painfully obvious for all to see, herself even more, that she is ineligible for the position given to her. A mere entry level employee becoming the Director's personal assistant? Absurd. She should be tasked with making coffee and copies and other mundane affairs as protocol dictates in such cases – but she is not.

She swallows the sigh twirling under her tongue, accepts her ID and gadgets then bends her waist in the customary bow.

"Thank you, Kaede-san. I look forward to working with you."

Her smile is as radiant as the artificial lighting in this office. Kaede inclines her neck, mere courtesy, not a single lock of hair astray. Kagome is well aware that the woman can see right through her smile as well. It is only fair, she reckons.

"Welcome to Taishō Inc., Kagome-san."

She turns to leave but pauses as she recalls a portion of her cynic thoughts.

"May I ask a question, Kaede-san?"

Polite, tight-lipped, Kaede stares at her with mild curiosity.

"Yes?"

"How does the Director like his coffee?"

Even as she utters the question, she hears herself chuckling in her head, insipid sound, too dry to even be called that. Kaede is studying her closely when she catches her gaze, but Kagome can't quite tell whether in resignation or reproach – then the woman chuckles, identical in tones to the sound filling the auditorium of her mind.

"Strong – like everything else."

* * *

Fifty minutes later, she is in the kitchenette attached to her office. Ten minutes later, she is pressing the intercom outside _his_ office. One minute later, she is placing a hot cup of coffee on a coaster atop his desk. He doesn't speak, doesn't move, merely watches her, eagle-eyed, albeit lazy in his scrutiny, as if accustoming himself to this routine. The smell of coffee emanates from the cup, steaming intoxicant, bold aroma – an antithesis to its nature. It is not supposed to whet the senses, to mellow inhibitions, but this blend rouses strange effects, chisels the voice of eschewal. She wants him as much as she shouldn't. _Mistake._ The word bounces back and forth between them, slick with danger, until she can no longer discern in whose eyes it dwells, only that it is irrevocably sentient. Desire can be nothing more and nothing less than what it is.

He moves then, yet still he does not speak – fingers coiling around the cup, bringing it to his mouth. There is the barest pause, half-lidded. She waits for the first sip, the first taste, but it never comes, or if he drinks, it lasts no more than a flutter of wings. He places the cup back on the coaster, intentions laid bare, memory awakened – _one_ slow thrust – and she understands how deep his cruelty lies. _Is that what I am to you?_ She doesn't need to search for the answer, she already knows. _No – below even that._ Unlike her, the coffee is, at the very least, _strong_.

If this is a fairytale then she has chosen to lie with the Dragon.


	14. Apple of Discord

Employees throng the cafeteria when she takes a break for lunch – many faces, young and old, familiar in the way strangers who work for the same company are. She chooses the farthermost table, takes no heed of noises and whispers alike – she has no time for such things, she barely has time for lunch itself.

 _This is a nightmare… His schedule is unreal, the responsibilities are unreal – everything is…_ too much. Head hung low, fingers laced behind her neck, her plate untouched, she sighs. _I can't do this… One person_ cannot _take care of all these things. At this rate, I'll have to move into this office._ She sighs once more, rubs her lids, smearing blots of mascara with her careless motions, not that it matters. The rings under her eyes are the inerasable stains. She can wash the paint off her face, but those rings will only grow blacker, parasites feeding on her sleep. No rest for the hunter means no rest for the prey. _Does_ he _ever sleep? Will_ I _ever sleep?_ Probably not.

Slowly, the noises holler louder, the whispers shift lower, darts of unease, her body their target. Words are thrown at her from every direction, too thin to shred flesh but sharp enough to tear little holes and slip into layers of skin. She listens, absorbs the barbed stingers, until it is too late to extract them. Poison spills into her bloodstream, harmless in small doses, but she takes in too much of it, enough to cause an allergic reaction.

"Did you hear –"

"– he was back for a while."

"Now this new secretary…but don't you think –"

"– never on good terms anyway."

"She's just a pretty face –"

"…because he's only a half-brother?"

"– never had a personal assistant before…"

She doesn't care for what is being said in regards to her; it is nothing she hasn't heard before or won't hear again. Her attention is reserved for the other person mentioned in their gossip. _Taishō Inuyasha._ The mere thought of his name gives life to spectral fingers, cold sweat and constriction, births marks on her neck anew, and she asphyxiates on nothing but the terror of memory. When her lungs fill with air again, she is trapped in the chilly frisson of disquiet – but there are questions more bruising than his ghastly touch.

 _He was well enough to return to work for a while before I was hired? Then how…why? What the hell happened in the past? What's happening_ now _?_

* * *

Mysteries abound in the dark of her mind with each greedy breath she takes. Kagome hungers for many things – answers, change, _him_. _Is_ cannot be _was_ , and _what_ _will be_ is not soon to come. The butterfly has become the larva, metamorphosis undone, but _he_ has always been the dragon. She begrudges him that, if nothing else. Even dragons must have been hatchlings at one point, though. Nothing is born fully grown – but perhaps he is an exception. Somehow, she finds this thought more than a little amusing.

 _If you are a dragon then where are your wings, your scales, your claws?_ She stares at him, tries to envision the mythical serpent, and he is perfect, but perceptively human. Maybe it is her fault for being so terribly inadequate, eyeless to his true form the way she is. _Will the day come when I'll be able to see you as you're meant to be seen?_ Maybe there is more than perception broken, that what is unreal should, perhaps, remain that way. _I must see the man in the dragon, not the dragon in the man –_

But she only continues to look for what she desires, despite herself.

"Is everything in order for the Board meeting that is to take place tomorrow?"

His eyes never stray toward her, but his tone of voice warns there is only one acceptable answer.

"Yes, Director."

No praise is given for what is deemed expected.

"You will attend and record minutes of all board and committee meetings from now on."

"Understood, Director."

It is unnecessary to bow in compliance – her reply is sufficient enough – yet she nonetheless does. Another duty, another task, time stolen, sleep reduced even more. If she could sigh in his presence, she would have, but when she rises, his eyes are fixed on her. Dread infests all that she is made of – muscles and joints, organs and blood, nerves and skin. She knows _this_ expression, she has seen it before, has taken a bite of it – the gold apple of Eris. He _wants_ something from her, something that she will neither like nor be willing to give.

"What kind of business is Taishō Inc.?"

Casual question, cool voice, wholly discordant to that gleam in his eyes. It is only a matter of time before she becomes snared, before she breaks her knees with the fall, if she does not tread with caution. She shivers, indulges him for wariness' sake.

"A joint-stock corporation."

"What does that mean?"

Nothing changes – not his casualness, not his voice, not that insidious gleam.

"It is comprised by shareholders. Each shareholder owns the portion of the company in proportion to his ownership of the company's shares. The Chairman, in this case you, holds the largest percentage."

"Correct."

Everything changes then – that baneful gleam swallows all. She cannot tell _what_ the damned thing is he wants this time, but she can infer that he wants it _badly_.

"Did you study the profiles of all Board members?"

"Yes."

She nods once, awaits the lash of the whip, but it never comes.

"Good. Dismissed."

Numb, as if she _has_ been struck, she turns to leave, instinctive motor coordination.

"Should you fail to meet my expectations, there will be severe consequences."

The threat _is_ the whip, coated in lethal toxins, unlike mere gossip. Shivers crawl down her spinal cord. She is aware he is not referring to the board meeting but _something else_.

"I understand, Director."

She feels the heat of _that_ gleam on the curve of her back, hears the words he does not speak – _no…not yet_ – and she sees the _dragon_. She must be insane – for what forms in her mind is insane. _No…not this time._ What he wants, what she guesses that it is, she will not give. The board of directors consists of men, powerful men with a weakness for beautiful women, but she is no longer the _Yamato Nadeshiko_ of Ginza. _He_ is the one who made it so. Perhaps she is awfully wrong, perhaps he wants far sinister things, she can't be certain, but it matters not. Once that flare of defiance has been kindled, it can only grow into a sinuous pyre.

* * *

Coils and scales of ink, slithery flesh infused in skin-made canvas. She bites her lip, stares into the mirror, reflections of ebon-slit eyes, licks of fire on reddened skin.

"It's fierce and beautiful."

There is satisfaction in the male voice, wisps of lust, an artist's pride. She tilts her neck, catches his gaze.

"You think dragons can be ridden?"

He laughs, mistakes intent, all as well. A man's desire is not unpleasant when it is merely that.

"Depends on the dragon…and the rider."

Her lips curl, half-wryness, half-amusement. The tattoo rides her back – but can she ride the real dragon?


	15. Wolf Bite

One hour and one pound of tension. Perhaps less than an hour and more than one pound of tension. She stands at the entrance of the meeting room when her tasks have been carried to completion, rigidly still, but she could very well be kneeling at an execution platform. Pressure builds and spikes, lines of high voltage, her body the perfect conductor – galvanism fueled by trepidation. Despite failure hanging over her neck, reflected on the cutting edge of twin machetes, the Board meeting progresses smoothly, business wise at least. There are _incidents_ , insignificant to the matters discussed, yet rattling for her peace of mind – or more accurately, _people_.

_Ogawa Kōga._

_Kimura Natsuo._

Blue eyes follow her every motion – the arc of her spine as she bends to distribute the handouts, how her wrists twist when she fills the water in their glasses, the way her skirt glides over her knees as she walks to her designated position by the closed door. Blue eyes and interest – that is where the similarities between the two men end. Ogawa's motives are facile to infer, smeared on the umbra of lust that darkens his gaze, but Kimura's are difficult to judge, defiant of logic and instinct – hence she focuses on _him_ for the oddity of his reactions.

A man in his midlife is all she sees, granted a rather good midlife. He is neither old nor young, subtle lines of maturity on his features, his full build, yet still handsome, virile. Time has treated him well, money has treated him even better, but shock doesn't suit his complexion. He stares at her for a long time then pretends she does not exist in the room. No. It is more than that. He acts as if he has _never_ laid eyes on her, as if she is an apparition that haunts those who can actually see her.

She wonders if he is that as well, a visitant of her old life, but she discards the worry while it's still a crescent moon. Kagome will never forget the faces of each and every one of her customers at _Le Roi Soleil_ – and Kimura is not amongst them. Curiosity gnaws at her brain with sharp-tipped teeth until the meeting concludes. The Board members exchange last words with each other before they pass by her to leave. She smiles and bows, slips into the role of a hostess, but there is no great difference in this aspect of her work.

"I never thought I'd enjoy these boring meetings, but I've been proven wrong."

Ogawa Kōga's voice is not as cocky as his grin, deep nuances, rumbles that don't befit the youth of his age, younger than even she. Kagome tilts her neck, her mouth, ignores the man in favor of the suit. The father might be the shareholder, but the representative in this meeting, the one who hammers the nail, is the son.

"Ogawa-san."

His grin turns even cockier, laughter slinks into that rumble of voice.

"And you know my name. Someone did her homework. Eager to please the boss, are you?"

His eyes stray for the merest moment towards the one he, so mockingly, calls 'boss', but the undertone is lost on Kagome. However colored the word holds _one_ meaning to her – _boss_.

"But call me Kōga. I feel like my dad is lurking behind my back when I hear 'Ogawa-san'."

He winks at her, and _that_ truly befits his age. Suppressing the urge to sigh, she relies on the subtlety of diplomacy than the female wiles of the hostess in her.

"You will have to excuse me, but I am afraid I cannot address you with such familiarity. If you will further excuse me, I have to return to my duties now."

She makes no move to leave, merely reminds him of the time and place. Her duties are greeting the board members not indulging their whims.

"And if I don't excuse you?"

A challenge, outlined on the corners of his lips, on his stretched cheeks, baiting her to forgo formalities. She says nothing, stares at him with detachment – empty eyes, empty smile. His grin loses some of its arrogance but not all of it, dulled by her rejection, though not nearly enough.

"What's a woman like you doing here anyway?"

There is such naturalness in his question that she inhales sharply, hears things he does not imply. That _like you_ sinks its fangs into her skin with the viciousness of a wolf bite. She exhales slowly, perspiration glides down the nape of her neck in beads of sweat.

"I beg your pardon?"

He chuckles, almost too pleased with himself.

"That caught your attention, didn't it? I meant it as a compliment, though. You're too pretty to be playing fetch for these geezers."

Something changes then, in the potency of the air, in the thickness of the tension in her blood. She feels _him_ at her back before he even speaks – beast of a guard, smoke of dragon fire, cocoon of wings. Dragons possess a certain fondness for gold; they gather it in great masses, protect and covet it for all eternity, but she will be a fool to believe _she_ is that gold. No, this is simply a matter of pride, she tells herself even as she leans into his shadow.

"You are too young to be representing your father in such meetings, Ogawa. What is the reason for his absence?"

Belligerence secretes itself into Kōga's grin once again, more aggression, less enticement.

"The old man is sick…his heart, to be exact. It comes with age, you know?"

_He_ takes one step closer, always behind her, his presence heavy, his scales cool – but she burns, clothes melt into slick skin, fibers enmesh in tissue. His voice slips inside the collar of her shirt, slides down her spine, cold merges with hot into vapors of sweat.

"Relay my wishes for his swift recovery then."

"Was that the most honest you could do?"

She listens to their exchange, to the sound of clenching jaws in it, suffocates on the mephitic fumes, poison and fire.

"If you have finished harassing _my_ assistant, you may leave. The meeting is done and the exit is on your left."

For one millionth of a second, she believes she _is_ that gold – then she swallows the poison, strokes the fire with naked hands, extinguishes the merest scintilla of that belief.

"I was just trying to get to know her. Can't she even speak for herself? Unless she is your property or something?"

_He_ neither confirms nor denies it – there is no such need. She knows the answer, inked on her body, etched on the left side of her back, riding from her shoulder down to the swell of her buttocks. Kōga might not be able to see the unseen, but the slash of umbrage on his mouth speaks for itself, molds the words that come forth.

"You don't own _everything_ , Taishō. You merely started _this_ company, your first big step out of your father's shadow, but people aren't shares."

"Is there a point to your blather?"

Such dispassion, such condescension, as if he hasn't been dealt with an insult but a childish tantrum. It adds oil to the friction, smoothens that slash on Kōga's lips, spawns an insult from nothing.

"Just making small talk. I guess I should know better than to even try with you, right?" Light rumble, harbinger of wolf howl in skies of thunder. "But there is a similarity between shares and people. Both can change sides quite easily."

The words are soft like tufts of fur yet thick with threat, caresses of enlightenment. Taishō Inc. is a board of chess, _he_ is the King, the Board members are knights and bishops and rooks, she is but a mere pawn, and each shareholders' meeting is a game. She grasps the precariousness of her situation, realizes that what he _wants_ surpasses mere seduction. Victory – utter and indisputable victory. _He_ will accept nothing less, will do whatever it takes in his quest, because the King will either rule or fall – and falling is not an option for _him_.

But there are still missing pieces, things she cannot fully cognize. What is her part? How can she help? Why does he need her? If he means to have her beguile his antagonists within the company then he should not interfere – but _he does_. It makes no sense –

"Oh and tell your brother to return my calls. I've been trying to reach him for a month now, but I keep getting the voicemail. He'd better not pull another disappearing act for years."

Her mind freezes, thought caught in limbo, dragon breath searing her neck.

"Inuyasha has gone to the States for reasons of his own. I am not sure when or if he will return."

_Inuyasha…Taishō Inuyasha. It makes no sense –_

"He could still pick up his damn phone. That asshole…he always does this."

Her ears devour the rumble of Kōga's voice – quakes of irritation, shocks of worry. It is over before she can even digest the sound – then he winks at her, grin as cocky as ever.

"I'll be seeing you, beauty."


	16. Dead Man

_He_ steps beside her when Ogawa Kōga leaves the room, threads of tension coiling tighter, precipitant astriction. There is a touch of wildness in his profile, a predator's anticipation as he waits for his prey, feral instincts in that gleam of gold in his eyes. She watches the beat of his pulse on the hollow of his neck, imagines his jaws falling open as he scents his prey, as he relishes the taste of weakness and victory – and finally she sees it. The Prey. _Kimura Natsuo_.

"Congratulations on securing the Flint contract, Taishō. I don't know how you did it, but you must have pulled some strings to make it happen. We had all tried our hand in the past, but Flint had never shown any interest."

Everything is addressed to _him_ as if she is nothing more than a puppeteer's doll – Kimura's words, his gaze, his discontent. She has never witnessed a person being so oblivious to another's presence as Kimura is to hers, so glaringly obvious that she comes to pity him. For the prey to willingly approach the hunter – Kimura Natsuo is either weaker than she is or inanely desperate. It intrigues her more than it should, but she cannot deny the implications. Kimura is warier of _her_ than he is of Taishō Sesshōmaru – and the Hunter knows it.

"Are you curious to know?"

She shivers lightly but remains in place. The way he voices this is chilling with the last frost of winter, full of animal voracity – the first hunt of the dragon after a long slumber.

Kimura's smile is strained, his eyes glassy with images conjured – rows of hot-crossed fangs mere inches from his face, dripping saliva and hunger.

"I doubt you'll tell me, so let's leave it at that."

His teeth are grazing the brittle flesh, teasing in the way of carnivores. She can trace the serous lines on Kimura's scalp, cheeks, neck – a mélange of blood and ripped skin and bodily fluids. That tension mounts, reaches its zenith, and she fathoms that _his_ next line will be the first true bite. It is as swift as it is deadly.

"Give my regards to your daughter."

Silence. Blood. Fear. Kimura's eyes shift to her. It lasts no more than one flap of a hummingbird's wings. _It makes no sense –_

"She told me you declined her invitation for dinner. Something to do with a full schedule this month?"

Kimura's voice is pleasant but too casual, hints of fatherly concern, drowned under the ambition of man. She buries confusion in a tomb for irony then, to be exhumed later in privacy. Laughter bubbles in her throat, stale amusement. Kimura's daughter is as much of a puppeteer's doll as she is, but unlike Kagome, she has the privilege of her station, cannot be ignored in her ignorance. The juxtaposition is, indeed, laughable.

"Yes. If you doubt me, feel free to ask my assistant for a copy of my schedule."

The dragon rears its scaly head again, snout bathed in warm blood, unsated. _More_. She hears the beastly roar, clamoring for more, perforating her eardrums. Kimura is a dead man, eaten alive, limb after limb – and she is the _bait_ that lured him to his demise. The why or how or when is a mystery, hidden under the talons of the dragon, until _he_ decides to tear into her flesh as well, to pour the secrets into the wounds with the first slash.

"That won't be necessary."

Sweat streaks down Kimura's temples as he fidgets under the slit-gazed threat – but it is too late. The Hunt has begun and it will not end until he is nothing but a mass of gaping flesh and blood on the ground, into the dragon's belly.

"I would not mind indulging your daughter at another time, though. Tell her to contact my assistant and choose a suitable date."

She stiffens as that baleful gleam licks her for the merest of moments, smears Kimura's sufferance upon her skin, digs up an iota of her confusion. What is _his_ endgame?

"Of course. She will be happy to hear this. If you'll excuse me then."

Kimura flees the gold-scaled menace then – but she is not as fortunate. His voice cuts across her cheekbone, smelted blood and heat, coalesces with that ball of pressure nesting low in her stomach.

"When Kimura's daughter calls, make arrangements _only_ for dinner, no matter her demands."

"Yes, Director."

Laconic, devoid of hue, all saturation of emotion. It will not do to show fear. Kimura is dead because he has given in to fear.

"Did you study the profiles of the Board members' families as well?"

She can tell he already knows her answer, yet it is not displeasure that curls the corners of his lips – a dragon smile, delectation above a gnashing of teeth.

"No, Director. I apologize for my negligence."

"See to it that you do."

Nothing more, nothing less. She fathoms an angle of the endgame then. The why and how and when are in the task he assigns her beyond doubt of certainty.

* * *

"I'm sorry for not calling sooner, but I've been quite busy, mom."

It has been quite a long time since she has heard her mother's voice that she can't even tell if she misses her now. Distance weakens all bonds over time, but closeness revives them in less than mere seconds. She needs to see her mother, to feel that bond, recall that there is a world outside the dragon's lair.

"I'll tell you all about my new job on Sunday. I'll come pick you up at the train station. Love you, mom."

She hangs up, light tingles on her fingertips, pure elation. It lasts for a while, this warm feeling, until she opens the file with Kimura Natsuo's family information. Her eyes cannot see words, her mind can only process features, bone structure, black hair and blue eyes – _another her_.

"Kimura…Akiko."


	17. Woman's Choice

Higurashi Izumi is as gentle and quiet-spoken and slim-figured as she has always been, but Kagome can see the veins of weariness thinning her skin. The fragrance of mikan blossoms wafts in her nose, clings to her cheeks, when she closes her arms around her mother. Izumi smells of summer and mother and home. Lids lowered, she inhales the scent deep into her lungs, her mind travels back in time – an array of orange peels and fresh juice on the table, sunny laughter and unripe bliss. Her lashes flutter as she draws back; the vision is sealed into the treasure box of happier times, but the smell lingers, seeps into her mouth, and she can almost taste what that little girl tasted.

"I'm sorry that you can't stay longer, mom."

Kagome has lost count of how many times she has apologized on their way from the train station to her small apartment. Her mother's smile is warm, her voice warmer still. An apology. A smile. It is a vortex of kindness and regrets, wind in late summer's evening, warm but thick with salty scents.

"I'm happy for you, but you shouldn't overwork yourself." Izumi shakes her head, part-sigh, part-laughter, stops Kagome from fussing over her messy apartment the minute she passes the threshold. "Finish your work, Kagome. I'll take care of that and make lunch. We can talk then."

Papers and photos are strewn on the low table in the center of her living room, detailed profiles of all Board members and their immediate family.

"I'm really sorry, mom." Kagome apologizes again, Izumi smiles again, that cycle goes round and round until she is dizzy with things she cannot say. _I'm sorry I can't go back to that place._ Her mother tenses then, smile stiff on her lips, as if she can read Kagome's thoughts, the shameful tale of her _fall_ , but she is not staring at her daughter.

"Mom?" Voice fragile with questions, worry etched in blue, cycle broken. No apology. No smile. "Are you alright?"

Izumi smiles then – but it is not the same smile.

"I guess I'm a bit tired from the trip."

Relief comes in tidal waves, suffuses her body. Kagome lies to herself, chooses to believe her mother's flimsy excuse. If Izumi has truly seen her _fall_ then Kagome doesn't want to know. Sometimes, words unsaid hurt less.

"Come sit down. You really don't have to do all that for me."

Izumi takes a seat beside her, exchanges places with her daughter.

"I want to do something for you, even if it's just cleaning your apartment. I'm sorry, Kagome. If only your father had been alive –"

She is the one to apologize this time, but Kagome cannot be the one to smile. Perhaps she is not as strong as her mother, perhaps she is too young to step into that role. It feels like medicine, bitter to swallow, but _his_ toxins still corrupt her blood, fester inside every vein and artery; they cannot be nullified by merely that. The past can never overwrite the present, and a future shaped by the present is full of fire that never dies, of ill blood and obsession. To desire a dragon means to burn for as long as _he_ lives – flesh melted off bones, skin shed over and over, until she, too, becomes the serpent.

"You worry too much, mom. I'll be fine. I've made it this far, haven't I?"

It sounds like a lie, tastes like a lie, and, perhaps, it _is_ a lie. Kagome can't be sure if this is fate preordained or whimsical coincidence, but there is one truth. _He_ is as guilty of her fall as she is, if not even more so. Kimura Akiko's picture reveals this secret, her drawn lips whisper schemes she is yet not cogent of – but soon to come, too soon. She forgets herself, her lips curl in mimicry of the girl's smile, not quite the same. Kagome can't decide who is the more pitiable between them. The woman who offers herself to the dragon or the girl who is offered to him?

"Look at this girl. We're so alike…but so different. Her father is on the Board of the company I work for and it seems he's willing to use even his own daughter if it will open the right doors. She will only see life through the bars of a golden cage."

Her mother studies the girl closely, almost regretfully, yet she doesn't give the reaction Kagome expects. No surprise, no confusion, only the quiet side of resolution, gentle strokes of her eyes as she turns to Kagome, as if she can no longer stare at this girl made of ink and illusory freedom.

"You wouldn't like to be in her position? Even caged birds are better than birds with broken wings."

Soft-spoken, brimming with tacenda, Izumi's words slink into her mind, scrape the exposed nerves, and she _knows_. Kagome can see it in her mother's gaze, in her dry lashes, eyes that can no longer spill tears. _Falling_ is neither fate nor coincidence but a woman's choice – and her mother has made that choice as well.

"Broken wings will heal in time, but golden bars will not melt so easily. I'd rather take my chances in the wilderness, even if it means losing one wing through the struggles."

Another truth, though partial this time. Kagome can only speak for herself; Kimura Akiko might actually like her cage.

"Mom…" She waits for her mother's smile, for the sign that it is alright to ask, even if she can't reciprocate. It is not a matter of trust or shame, but Kagome would rather spare her mother of debts that don't belong to her. "What is it that you want to tell me? You've been acting strange ever since you saw that girl's picture."

Izumi's eyes flit back to that picture, but she speaks another name.

"Kimura Natsuo."

For the first time Kagome hears not her mother's voice, but a woman's voice, a voice that eerily resembles her in all the wrong ways. Teeth clamp on the insides of her cheeks, abrade the wet flesh. She asks what she already suspects for punishment's sake. Kagome is the one to welt old wounds, graze her mother's white scars, until they become as hot and red as hers. It is only fair that she bears some of the burden.

"You know her father?"

Her mother's smile is so gentle that it becomes painful to look at – a mirror of her future self.

"Yes." It's not one simple word, but punishment lifted, burden unloaded. _You don't have to ask – I'll tell you._ Kagome feels so small then, more punished, more burdened – she finally understands. Her mother cannot cry; she can only smile. Kagome can do neither – she can only listen.

"You know I stopped working after I got married, but before that I was an office lady. The company I worked for was owned by Kimura Natsuo. Your father worked for a company Kimura did business with, so that's how we met. He was charming and kind, so very kind. He was kind enough to marry a woman like me. You see…there aren't many choices for a pregnant mistress."


	18. Time Has Come

Sundays are precious, the spirited stone of the week, filled with long, restful hours – but not _this_ Sunday. It is the first Sunday since she has begun working at Taishō Inc. that isn't a soothing gem. Kagome finds no cessation of thoughts, no sleep – she immolates her cherished time so that the answers may come forth. Kimura Natsuo. The name twists and bends into the labyrinth of speculation, breeds more questions when entwined with another. Taishō Inuyasha. Both are on the board of directors, both are connected to Taishō Sesshōmaru, to _Higurashi_ Kagome. She reevaluates what little information she possesses, splits the jigsaw parts into even smaller ones, until _something_ finally makes sense. Taishō Inc. is the dragon's _gold_ , the eye of the cyclone, so deceptively calm in contrast to the storm raging outside its circle.

Unconsciously, perhaps consciously, she has committed a grave mistake, has thought herself as mere reed swept up by pure happenstance – but _she is not_. Sequence of events knits itself, motives are being welded together, forged into a sword that slashes smoothly through the riddles, spilling their zesty innards before her. The soles of her feet are drenched in writhing flesh, warm and sticky between her toes, vining around her ankles. Bile churns her stomach as she ingests the foul smells, rises up to her throat, but she forces it back down. What she has is not answers, merely guesses. She's plodding through a slough, slowly being submerged with each step she braves, but whether dragged in or out, there is only one person waiting at the end.

"Director."

It is the first Monday she dares break his rules, come into _his_ office for _her_ personal gain. She stares at him, quietly asks for permission, yet he seems uncannily pleased, maybe even exhilarated. It should nonplus her, that sordid glow in his eyes. A predator will show that kind of expression only when he has cornered his prey, teeth clamped around its neck, savoring the thrill of the catch, the flailing of life in his jaws.

"I will give you ten minutes to speak freely. Do not waste my time."

Even his voice wears the hide of satisfaction, low and deep tones, as if he is just now waking up. It whets the senses, provokes conception of things that fracture resistance – the scent of arousal and man, skin against skin, nude and perspiring, muscles clenching, gliding against her back, and inside –

She exhales, nearly gasps, tongue slick in her mouth, swollen with words she can't speak. What she does say takes the moisture away, but not the heat of it, never that.

"You knew all along, didn't you? That I was Kimura Natsuo's…illegitimate daughter."

Neither is a question, only belated realization, quick admission. His gaze bores into hers, unnaturally bright, pupils dilated, ravened, so alike that first time. Apprehension spikes, thickens the air – she cannot mistake intent. He appears ready to pounce, take her down on the cold floor, and ravish what's left of her. She carries on out of twisted compulsion, because she can't stop once she starts.

"If the media gets wind of this, it will cause an uproar. Kimura-san will be ruined – his marriage, his company, his credibility."

A man sundered by scandal makes the most delicious prey. She might not share any relations with Kimura Natsuo besides thin blood, but if that comes to happen, she will suffer another fall alongside him. It is inevitable, too succulent to eschew. The press is a kettle of vultures, circling above, biding their time until the prey becomes nothing but a carcass to feed on.

His mouth twitches, barely noticeable, but it is enough – amusement and victory in one quirk of lips.

"Illegitimate children are indeed troublesome. If Kimura wished to avoid future complications, he should have added you to the family registry and given you financial insurance – as my father did with Inuyasha. A rich bastard child is not the same as one poor and hidden away."

She devours the little scrap he gives, another piece to that endless puzzle. That he chooses to do so now implies only one thing. The grains have near gathered at the bottom of the sandglass, her time has almost run empty.

"Your brother is an…illegitimate son?"

There is no need for reiteration nor will it be tolerated, but what she wants is to press him, to see if that satisfaction will remain etched in place after that.

"He has the Taishō name."

The gold in his eyes liquidates, erupts and flows outwards, volcanic lava spilling onto the earth – and she understands, connects another piece of the puzzle.

"That's not all he has, though."

The last grains of sand fall in a seamless descent, soundless. She stares into his eyes as he stands, as he comes close, and closer. There is no more sand to fall, no time to move.

"Tell me then, what else does he have?"

His voice has grown deeper, has surpassed the limits of mere pleasure. It crawls into her clothes, glissades over naked skin, rough strokes of vowels and consonants. She tells him what he wants to hear, what he all but extorts out of her.

"He owns shares in _your_ company."

A curl of lips, downcast, but delectation in that reversed smile, as if he finds it both loathsome and amusing.

"My father owned shares in _my_ company, jointly held with my brother."

"But your father passed away."

The words escape her throat before she can halt them, but there's no reason to censor herself at this point. The dragon is too close, his breath a lash of fire, lapping at her face.

"Inuyasha is unfit for the business world."

Conviction smeared on sharp teeth, dripping from their tips, burning holes in her flesh. That one sentence, so simply uttered, tells her all she needs to know.

"Did he see it that way?"

"No."

That smile turns upside down, lips slightly peeled back. Her stomach cramps, contractions of air and gastric acid.

"Did he approach my…biological father with that mindset?"

"Yes."

She can't respire, can't break down the poison he hurls at her. What he connotes is too vile, too inhuman. It should not shock her half as much as it does. She can see the dragon, she can –

"Kikyō-san…was she –"

"Ten minutes are over."

She keeps gazing at him, transfixed. Vision prevails, drowns out all other senses. He could have chuckled, he could have struck her, and it would have slipped past her notice.

"My brother has no mind –" He leans closer, licks the charred holes. "– for business."

When sensations suffuse her body, she feels cold with dread, colder the more steps he takes away from her. Her stomach is hollow, no cramps, nothing but dryness. His last words swell in such emptiness, fill the vacuum with acerbity, attach another piece of that puzzle.

"But you hold potential. Kimura has always made the wrong choices."


	19. Arena

Kagome waits for Kimura Akiko's call, nerves frazzled to the breaking point, but it never comes. The only phone call she receives is in regards to Kimura Natsuo and stock matters. Kimura has been devoured down to the medulla of his bones. It happens so quickly, so thoroughly, that she doubts the man has ever existed. Nothing remains for burial, no body to mourn, no voice to sing his elegy. The daughter is the instrument of the father's demise, the bearer of his sins, but she no longer pities him. It is the way of life for children to bury their parents. Kimura Natsuo is dead. He is not father to _Kagome_ but to _Akiko_. The truth lasts no more than an echo of mountain winds, a crest of tropic waves. She is _Higurashi_ Kagome, as she has always been, as she will always be.

Ashen-faced, she stares at the man who plays the instrument, at his long fingers, and wonders if he knows any other piece besides requiems.

"Kimura-san's broker called to confirm that your trade has occurred. I used an offshore bank account to pay for the shares you have purchased."

His gaze is cold pleasure, the gold of dragon eyes, shine of cruelty full-fledged. It raises shivers on her skin, sparks little shocks of _something_ , less than fear – weariness culminated into anticipation. She tries to mask it, but her tone of voice is not as neutral as she would have liked.

"Kimura-san will no longer be on the board after that. Can I assume that my employment will end as well?"

His eyes narrow, half-lidded dissection.

"Perhaps."

Strips of fabric disintegrate wherever his stare touches until she stands half-naked before him. The clothed part of her clamors to leave, the nude one craves to stay – but then he leans back, chin raised, staring down at her despite that she is taller than he in this arrangement, and wrath rips the remainder of her clothing apart.

"Laws mean nothing to people like you. Is that it?"

Anger murders the difference of status between them, bands them into the same echelon. She forsakes herself, her stark nudity; she addresses him as her equal, cares nothing of the repercussions, slathered on that odious curl of his mouth.

"There is only one absolute law in this world – the strong eat the weak. Any other law can be manipulated, bent to suit people's interests." Such dogma in his words, such despotic voice. "Kimura was aware of the dangers when he chose Inuyasha's side, perhaps even more than my foolish brother."

Her stare clashes with his, duels in the coliseum of malignity. Fire bursts from his mouth, melts rock and earth, and she screams, war cries drowned under decrepitation.

"You ruined your brother… Are you going to ruin Kimura-san, too? For mere ambition?"

Her last sentence is uttered so bluntly that it borders on cynicism. She watches as his jaws split open, black lips and white teeth. A nimbus of smoke and hotness pours out, breath of dragon laughter.

"Ambition?" The word is wildly discrepant when he speaks it, as if she is a child using language she can't yet fathom. "Kimura will simply pay the price for his asinine choice."

She almost takes a step back, flinches at the voracity of his avowal. Kimura Natsuo has committed financial suicide. The dragon holds everything previously owned by Kimura – Taishō Inc.'s shares, his own company's stocks, even his daughter. He is _nothing_ – not Chairman, not Board member, not Father. Hasn't he satisfied his hunger, hasn't he eaten enough flesh? Taishō Sesshōmaru has devoured himself from tail to head for the snake to be the dragon – and _still_ he cannot be sated.

"You will take everything _his_ like you did with your brother?"

His human façade peels away, leaves only scales and gold behind. She flinches again, takes one step back this time.

"Nothing belonged to my brother. I merely took back what was loaned to him."


	20. Truth or Lie

She stares at him, dallies with the malefic slits in his pupils, ingurgitates the embers of his vice. There is only one way for her to unveil the past – she must guzzle the charred lumps of what remains, devour his leftovers into the pits of her stomach. Choking on the pother of dragon breath, she keeps swallowing, merging the coals into a seething mass, until gastric acid erodes the iniquity, until only the weight of gold nuggets remains heavy in her belly.

"Kikyō-san never loved him, did she?"

He leans forward, appraises her in chilling quietness. Delectation mantles the mephitic vapors gushing out of his lungs, smears poison on the gloss of his scales. Leathery wings stretch and unfold, hurl all of his pleasure towards her in a gust of hot wind.

"Daft woman... She fell for her own lies in the end."

It curves and gyrates around her, almost gentle in its caress, slipping into every orifice of her body. Her insides burn and swell to the point of rupture, tissue splitting, purging the spoiled blood. It pours out of her eyes and ears in thin lines, gurgles in her throat, and she spits it in his face.

"Lies can become truth. Your brother may have killed her, but you're the one who orchestrated her death."

The corners of his mouth lift by a margin, lips parting slightly, tongue darting out, licking his face clean down to the last drop.

"Does it matter? Is your truth not a lie as well?"

She sneers at his immunity, at his lost humanity. Only a real dragon would eat venom with such glee. Those nuggets become unbearably heavy; the truth punctures her guts, spills forth with her ruined intestines, diseased flesh and tainted blood and gold on the floor.

"You used me to destroy your brother and my father, like you used Kikyō-san and Akiko-san. Where's the lie in that?"

One sumptuous lap of his tongue, one licking of lips – he imbibes corruption, revels in the taste of unavailing rage. Perhaps he enjoys the fact that his prey has come forward to confront him barefaced, perhaps it is the first time anyone has dared as such; she can't tell what brings such satiety forth, but he is far too pleased, far too dangerous.

She licks her lips as well, her gaze follows his motions as he stands, almost paralyzed. Fear wars with wrath in her body, hacking and tearing at each other, bloody pieces crawling and fusing out of balance. There is only the sound of his steps and the quaking of her bones at first, but as the distance closes, she becomes aware of many things. The scent of fine-blended tobacco clings to his skin, inundates her lungs with its mellow sapor, poison for poison. She feels the pressure on her waist, the heat of collision and vertigo, muscles flexing, fast, jarring motions. The smell of wood is slathered everywhere – on the curl of his lips, against her buttocks. His voice soaks through layers of fabric and skin, her fingers clutch the lapels of his dress shirt, bring him even closer, clasped between her thighs.

"You allowed yourself to be used. If you had taken the offer, I would have never involved you personally."

Her waist bends to the rhythm of his voice, back arching into him, knees bruising against his hips. She pants heavily, clutches him tighter, if only to avoid his eyes. It is becoming laboring to interpret what he means to say with the way his lips slide on the arc of her neck, fire melted into words, slinking into her cleavage.

"I don't… I don't understand –"

A rough sound vibrates in his chest, spreads from her knuckles to her nipples. Teeth graze the juncture of her neck and shoulder, tease the soft flesh, made slick from perspiration and want.

"Do you think I need a personal assistant?"

"No."

It's redundant to answer, but she does anyway, for the lust of his touch, if nothing else. If she ends the hunt, if she doesn't give him what he expects, he will draw back, sever this addiction on his own. He will leave her a writhing, gasping mess on his desk – and she can't have that. If this is the only manner she can have answers then she will be the prey, she will let him toy with her susceptibility just a little bit longer. There is much to gain but nothing to lose. She has already lost in this aspect of the game.

"Why did I not admit my brother to an institution for his affliction?"

Need heightens, flushes her skin, breaks out in husky exhalations. It feeds the satiation that thrums in his voice with low frequencies.

"Because…if someone found out…then –"

He moves against her then, one slow thrust of hips, hard nipples scraping against his torso, punishment for giving the wrong answer. She bites her lip, but he doesn't allow for another try.

"Where do you think he is now?"

Realization is sharper than the teeth nipping at her flesh, nibbling on the savor of victory, gnawing on her stark aversion. She can't help the rasp of revulsion in her tone as much as she can't mask the cursed need meshed in it.

"You… How could you –"

One last bite, one last gripping of teeth, and he leans back, shows her the eyes she loathes to see. He has saved the most delicious parts for last, for the reaping of the hunt.

"I used Kikyō. I used Akiko."

Cold names, dead names, nothing more than vestiges of last wishes – then his voice grows hot, his gaze hotter. She shivers, waits to hear her name beside those, uttered cold and dead, but what he speaks is far worse than that.

"But I never used _you_."

No name, no cold, no death. _Heat_ – too much, bursting from the bowels of hell, befitting the damned, rings of fire circling her neck, wrists, ankles. She has strapped herself onto this crux and he has pounded the nails, slicing skin and breaking bone, one by one, but never the last aimed at her heart, not until now. _You offered and I took._ Sinking deep, and deeper, metal pierces through valves and arteries, floods her lungs with blood and shame. She stares at the dragon claw, at her essence spilling from each tip, then raises her eyes to his, endures the luster of noxious satisfaction.

"Why _me_?"

Mere inches from her lips, his tongue flicks out, spreads moisture on her sapped flesh, sears and burns but not as much as his reasoning.

"Because that is what you wanted – and I was in a giving mood."

She laves her lips, tastes what he tastes, toils to fathom what he finds so delectable, why he can't resist ruining people. It is sweet with lust, bitter with hate, infeasible to eschew once she takes a sip of it.

"And this? Is _this_ also a reward?"

"No." He tastes her again, tongues tangling sinuously, drawing the blood from her lungs into his mouth – and she understands. He can't stop until he has eaten all that she is, until no flesh, no bones, no blood remain. "This is another offer."

"You have no more use for me. I mean less than nothing to you. _Why_ –?"

Even as she asks, she knows.

"Why not?"

She sees it in the glint of his eyes, casting shadows, suns swallowed by one eclipse. _You want to bring me down?_ She feels it in his touch, gliding ice, creamy gelidity. _Take my offer and try._ The dragon wants to play with her.


	21. All-White

The truth tastes like bone-dry wine, tingles on the tip of her tongue, darker than black, redder. Sip after sip, she drinks, partakes in the flavors simmering within – viscosity of blackberries, burn of black pepper. The bottle is half-full, half-empty, her curiosity the same. She repeats the facts that are known to her, carefully pieces the puzzle, until it depicts an image she despises to see. There are no innocents in this game, no winners, only the cursed. Kimura Natsuo has paid for his ambition; Taishō Inuyasha has suffered for his envy; _she_ has swallowed her lust; the dragon has devoured his greed.

But she cannot feel _pity_. If she pities one amongst them then she must pity all – and _that_ she cannot do. It will feel too much as if she is giving excuses for things done in full conscience. The only excuse she can accept is how it all ends. _Dangle a piece of meat into the dragon's maw and he'll eat both bait and hand._ Laughter glides on her palate, fills her mouth with its thick and oily texture. What fools – _all of us_ – such fools… Lain naked across the dragon's tongue, flesh against flesh, steeped in venom and heat. The only choice left in such a situation is whether to slip down his throat and slowly melt in his stomach or to grind against his fangs and be torn into bloody smidgens – but to make that choice she needs to drink _all_ of the truth.

_I'll visit Taishō Inuyasha in the morning. I'll see the truth for myself._ Tomorrow _. The nightmare will end tomorrow._

She falls asleep with the taste of that laughter in her mouth – thicker, oilier – only to awaken into another nightmare, into a blinding maze. Ceiling, walls, bed, clothes – _all-white_ , too pristine, arranged in such perfect order that it becomes chaotic, upsets her stomach. Disorientation disrupts her senses, vertical fuses with horizontal, and she shivers, finds herself lying down while standing upright. _This isn't…right. What is_ this _? This –_

But it's still there, prowling quietly, sinking into the cold – dark in all things white. Static mobility, an antithesis in and of itself – she is moving _and_ unmoving. Her mind swirls into the chaos, caught in limbo; her body floats, suspended into compressed air. There is no anchor, no safety net below, nothing to mitigate her dizziness – until she sees _him_. Gold scintillates with the dim spark of lunacy when she focuses on the only thing _not-white_ in the room, but perhaps it is another filter over her own eyes, another layer of tissue over her own retinas.

"Kikyō…you woke up. Don't scare me like that…"

Her vocal cords feel abused, as if not used for quite some time. The words grate on the walls of her throat when she finally speaks.

"Taishō…Inuyasha."

She inhales the name with the first breath she takes, lips stretched thin, cracking under the strain. His eyes brighten with his smile – the smile of a man with a weight lifted off his shoulders.

"That's right, that's me. How are you feeling?"

Slowly, carefully, he reaches out with both hands, and she draws back, hunched against the wall, sheets crumbled around her.

"You…" She licks her lower lip, teeth around the soft flesh, gnashing tightly. "I – why am I –"

Her voice dies with his touch, fingers coiling around her wrists, tremulous strokes.

"Shh…it's fine, everything's alright. I know you didn't mean to do this." Anger distorts his smile into something less bright, but his touch remains gentle, intent on soothing her. "It's all that bastard's fault, anyway. If he hadn't visited, you wouldn't have been like this…" He pauses once more, brightness all but diminished, but he latches onto the vestiges of it, still smiles. "I told him to never come see you again, only me. You don't need to be scared of him now. I'll protect you, I promise."

She shakes her head, once, twice, motions too vigorous, and her mind shakes with them. Hands clutched to her chest, she severs bodily contact, crawls away from him to the edge of the bed.

"What are you saying? I'm not – I don't –"

All the whiteness around blurs her vision; she loses sight of him minutely, but still hears his voice, that too calm factor in it. Fear spikes, sharpens her instincts, quickens the flow of blood in her veins, and she leaps off the bed. Before she can take one step farther, he blocks her path, arms spread wide, but not touching her, not even trying to touch her again.

"It's not your fault – I know. That bastard…even though I warned him to stay away from you… even after –"

Her breath comes out in hot puffs, chest rising and falling in rapid succession. A scream roils inside her lungs, words slapped to his face. "I'm not Kikyō!" She watches the angry, red marks the backlash of her volume leaves on his skin. "I don't know what you're talking about. You must be mistaken. My name – my name is Kagome –"

Wraith-like claws sink into the name as she utters it, as if bleeding its body will make it more real. _I won't let go…this name, anything but this name._ Mine _…all I have left. Mine!_

" _Kagome_ –?"

There is such agony in his tone, such misery intoning each syllable, that she freezes in place. Another kind of fear weaves itself into the paroxysm of her turmoil. Her gaze rises to his level, unblinking, doll-like movements. The way he is staring at her, gold umbrous, eclipsed by regret, lights a burning sensation under her lids. _No – don't look at me like that._ How his lips tighten, become ashen, drained of blood, dries the moisture under her tongue. _Don't say it, whatever it is, just don't –_

"Kagome doesn't exist, Kikyō… Why are you being like this? If you're afraid that I'll blame you for having an affair with him then you don't have to worry. I'm not angry, not anymore. I've forgiven you… You don't need to make up anoth-"

His voice cuts deep, deeper than the dragon's fangs could ever pierce. She should have chosen the fangs, should have taken the dive into the dragon's stomach – _anything but this_. Somewhere in the midst of this delirium, of things that can't be real, she starts to _fall_. _I_ am _real,_ Kagome _is real. I_ am _Kagome._ The floor is cold and hard against her knees, sweet abrasions, pain in exchange for clarity. Her eyes fog over, everything becomes white again, even _he_. There is another person, another voice in the room, _all-white_.

"Inuyasha-san." Female voice, sharp-edged. "Kikyō-san needs to take her medication now. You can visit her in the afternoon again."

"I – can't I stay a little longer?"

She listens to the rasp of plea in his voice, almost a whine – she keeps on _falling_.

"You know the rules, Inuyasha-san."

"I'll come see you again, Kikyō." Warmth on her cheeks. Lips? A kiss? Yes…no. Ah…tears. "I love you."

She is suffocating on that warmth. Her mouth trembles, opens to take in breath, but instead gives out words, chocked.

"I – I'm not Kikyō…" Blindly, she reaches into the space, but encounters nil, terrible white. Sobs racking her body, she rocks back and forth, like a child. "Why am I here? Why are you –"

"Please calm down, Kik-"

Hands on her shoulders, that female, sharp-edged voice, then another pair of hands, another voice – she never stops _falling_.

"I'll take over, Sango. You can continue your rounds."

"Hai, Naraku-sensei."

Another white person, white voice, white hands – but there is something different about this one, something she can't quite recall. Then he speaks to _her,_ and she knows what it is.

"Good morning, _Kagome_."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> FIN


End file.
